Flying Home
by TT-5
Summary: What if Andrew had gone home instead of going to Sam's when he went AWOL in Enemy Fire.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I have not watched a lot of Foyle's War yet but what little I have seen I've really enjoyed. I especially like the relationship between Foyle and Andrew. So here is my version of what might have happened if Andrew had gone home instead of going to Sam's when he went AWOL in Enemy Fire.

This is the first time I have published a story so please review and let me know what you think, any constructive criticism is welcome but please no flames.

This was kindly edited by LauraRaposa and all the characters belong to the creators and the wonderful actors who portray them.

Chapter 1

It was late when Christopher Foyle heard a key snick in the lock, and he frowned as he listened to the familiar sounds of Andrew entering the house. He was delighted to have his son home but Foyle thought he only had a weekend pass from the RAF.

"Andrew," he called out.

Foyle's son stuck his head around the door.

"You're up late again, Dad."

"Not that late…good to see you," said Foyle. "Thought you only had a weekend pass?"

Something flickered in Andrew's eyes but it disappeared before Foyle could catch it. It was replaced instead by a weariness the police detective had sadly become accustomed to seeing on his son's face the last few times Andrew had been home from "the damn war."

"You're out late. Another evening out?" _Hmm. No lipstick this time, Foyle thought._

"Err…not exactly, I, um, I went to see Mum." Andrew ducked his head, and then continued, "I wanted to apologize for not being there the other day, and I can't believe I missed it, I mean."

Foyle sighed and shook his head. "Andrew, Andrew…" His son stopped and looked at him.

"I told you before you have nothing to apologize for, you've done nothing wrong. There's a war on, I understand that, and your mum would have, too. She'd care more that you're safe rather than if you made it back here for the, well, the anniversary."

Foyle spoke earnestly and truthfully as he always did. It worried him to see Andrew so upset and fixated on his oversight. It rarely seemed to affect him in the past. _Maybe it was the war and the death that surrounded them all. Losing his best friend, Rex, in a dogfight over the Channel had really shaken Andrew._

The sound of Andrew sitting down in his usual chair drew him from his thoughts. He glanced up at his troubled son and took in the young man's ashen face with dark circles under his eyes. The darkness in Andrew's eyes almost frightened Foyle. And he noticed with concern that his son's hands were shaking.

Breaking the silence, Foyle said, "Andrew, how did you get here? I didn't hear the bike."

Andrew seemed to be a in a bit of a daze, "Um, oh, I um, walked."

"You _walked_," asked his concerned father, a little louder than he intended. "Why did you do that?"

Andrew, looking surprised at his father's outburst, said, "Well, I stopped at a pub for a drink after seeing Mum, and I wasn't sure if I was fit to drive, so I walked. It wasn't that far…a bit cold though."

Foyle ran a hand through his hair as he stood. "A bit more then a bit cold. I'll fix you some tea. Why don't you put a bit more wood on the fire?"

By the time Foyle returned to the lounge with the tea tray, the room was noticeably warmer and Andrew was leaning up against the mantelpiece. He turned as Foyle entered accepting the steaming cuppa with a quiet "thanks" and a wan smile.

Father and son sat in silence for a bit as Andrew appeared preoccupied, staring blindly into the fire sipping his tea. Foyle studied him while he drank his own tea and wondered what Andrew was seeing in those flames. Honestly, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

A quick look at the clock on the mantelpiece showed the late hour, and Foyle still wasn't entirely sure how long - or even why - Andrew was back at home. It became increasingly apparent that his son wasn't going to shed any light on the situation.

Foyle cleared his throat and asked, "So…your leave got extended then?"

Andrew's gaze shifted from the fire to his father and then back again, "Err, well not exactly."

"Meaning?"

Andrew brought a hand up to his face, shading his eyes. "I've gone AWOL, Dad."

Foyle almost dropped his cup. "You've done _what_?" He didn't bother to keep the shock out of his voice as his steel blue eyes bore into his son's forehead.

Andrew rubbed a hand across his face, "I've gone AWOL. I can't go back. I don't care what they do to me." He spoke with fierce desperation as he stared at his father almost daring him to disagree.

Foyle struggled to understand. "But, Andrew, you've got to go back. You'll be court martialed."

Andrew put his cup down and ran his hands through his thick, brown hair. "I can't…I can't fly another op, Dad. I just can't. For weeks now I've been sick. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and every day we get fewer, Dad. I can't do it anymore."

The desperation in his son's voice tore at his heart but it was the look in Andrew's eyes that hurt Foyle the most. He'd seen that look before in the trenches in France during the Great War. It had been terrible then, and now to see it reflected in his son's eyes broke his heart. He didn't think he had ever hated Hitler more then he did in that moment when he saw a desperate, broken man staring back at him through his boys' brown eyes.

Foyle rubbed a hand over his forehead as he contemplated his words. "Well, we both know I would be delighted if you never flew another op, but Andrew they will come looking for you, and this will be one of the first places they'll look. What are you planning on doing? Hiding in the Anderson shelter for the rest of the war? You know they'll find you, arrest you. They'll expect me to turn you in!"

Andrew's eyes flashed with anger. "Oh, and are you going to, Dad? Damn it, I should have known you wouldn't understand," he said as he stood and strode towards the door.

"Andrew! Wait! Of course I'm _not_ going to turn you in. Don't be daft, but I'm also not going to stand by and let you get yourself court martialed. You'll have to go back, and if you really feel you can't do it anymore, we'll figure something out. But this isn't the proper thing to do, Andrew, and you know it."

He stood there watching his son's back for any sign that his words had sunk in when he saw the strong shoulders start to shake.

"Andrew," he said calmly as he took a step forward.

The shaking continued, and when Andrew finally spoke it was in a voice thick with tears. "Don't make me go back, Dad. Please. Please, don't make me go back."

Foyle felt his heart break again at his son's tearful plea. He crossed to where Andrew was standing and placed a gentle hand on his arm and that was all it took. Andrew spun and wrapped his arms around his father burying his face in Foyle's neck, muffling both his tears and his repeated pleas of "Please, don't make me go back."

Foyle was stunned for a moment but he soon found himself running a hand over the back of Andrew's head just as he had when he was a little boy. He murmured soothingly, "Sshh…It's alright…Shh…won't send you anywhere tonight…Sshh…I'm here, it's alright."

Andrew soon stopped his pleas but still sobbed with the same intensity. After a few minutes Foyle frowned and pulled back a bit to try and see his son's face. "Andrew?"

His son straightened a little and ran a hand over his face. "Sorry, Dad, I can't seem to stop. I don't know what's wrong with me." He tried a watery laugh but Foyle shook his head. He knew what the problem was even if Andrew didn't - exhaustion, stress, and the losses of friends his son hadn't given himself time to mourn. It had all caught up with Andrew, and now there was nothing to be done but let it run its course.

He had seen it in France - men who hadn't cried in weeks going to pieces over a dead bird. There was a limit to how much a man could take and Andrew seemed to have reached it. Foyle had prayed that his son would never experience this degree of trauma but those prayers had gone unanswered. So, now it was up to him to help him through it. His frown deepened when he saw Andrew's knees begin to shake. He reached out quickly and caught his elbow steering him down on to the settee.

"I'm sorry, Dad. Don't know what's the matter with me," said Andrew, his voice muffled as he sat with his head buried in his hands. The shame in his voice made Foyle close his eyes for a minute before sitting down beside his son. He paused as he often did to collect his thoughts and then placed a firm hand on Andrew's shoulder.

"Andrew, can you look at me, please," asked Foyle as his son lifted his tear-stained face. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Andrew, and you've done nothing wrong." He tried to infuse as much love and strength into the words as he could but Andrew just shook his head.

"I've gone AWOL, Dad, and, as you pointed out, they'll court martial me for it. Now I'm sitting here crying like a baby," he said, rubbing his eyes. "God, I don't know what's come over me today."

"What's come over you, as you put it, Andrew, is exhaustion." He held up a hand to forestall this son's interruption. "You told me yourself you haven't slept properly in weeks. How many ops have you flown in that time?"

Andrew shrugged, "God, I don't know, Dad. I've been on 15 this week so at least double that I guess…probably more."

Foyle closed his eyes briefly, the knowledge that his son had been in direct combat that often scared him more then he'd admit. He steeled himself to ask the next question. He hated to do it because he knew it would cause Andrew pain. But he knew that in the long run, it would help.

"And how many men have you lost in that time," he asked.

Andrew's eyes flew open, and for a quick second those eyes flashed something akin to hatred, but it was quickly melted by the love and compassion that filled his father's face. He turned away and stared into the fire again, the shaking of his shoulders the only movement in the room.

Foyle swallowed down the lump in his own throat, wondering if he should have left this alone until Andrew was stronger. But now it was done.

He reached out and laid a gentle hand on his son's shaking shoulder. "Andrew?" He felt the shoulders stiffen slightly then Andrew turned to face him. The pain in his son's eyes took Foyle's breath away so much so he barely heard the mumbled reply of "Eight" before Andrew threw himself into his arms for the second time that evening.

"Eight, Dad…most of them younger then me. I'm the leader on most of the ops. I'm supposed to bring them _home_, not help collect their kit so it can be sent home to their families!"

Foyle closed his eyes, blinking back his own tears as he ran a hand through his son's hair. He had thought that Andrew was mourning his friends - a heavy enough burden to bear. But to hear him blame himself, to hear him describe how responsible he felt for their safety, proved just how seriously his son took his job. Foyle didn't think he had ever been prouder of Andrew or more heartbroken for him.

He looked down at the young man who was sobbing into his waistcoat and whispered a small prayer of thanks that his son had not been one of those eight. As changed and broken as he was, Andrew was still in his arms. Alive. He let him cry, gently rubbing his back and trying to marshal his own emotions enough to speak.

Andrew was sobbing uncontrollably, half lying on his father, one hand clinging tightly to his waistcoat as he poured out all the tears he hadn't let himself cry. He found that since he started shedding tears, he didn't seem able to stop.

Foyle chewed on his lip slightly as he wondered just how long it had been since his son had let himself cry. The only time he could bring to mind was Rex's death and that was months ago now.

He looked down again and couldn't quite blink back the tears at the memory of the last time he had held his son like this almost exactly nine years ago. When Rosalind died he hadn't been able to get Andrew to come out of his room. Foyle allowed his son to grieve silently while he, numb with loss, went through the necessary motions of informing family and friends and calling the vicar.

It was hours later, when he had finally collapsed on to the settee with a glass of single malt, that he felt Andrew sit beside him. He looked over to see his own grief reflected in his son's sad, young face. All he had asked was, "Why, Dad," before collapsing into his father's arms much like he had this evening. And it was only then, as Foyle held his sobbing boy, that he had let those first tears fall.

"Why Dad?" Andrew's voice was deeper then it had been at 13 years old but just as heartbroken. And, just as before, Foyle had no answer for him as some questions have no answers.

"I don't know, Son, I don't know..."

"But it isn't fair!"

"No, it isn't, but war and death seldom are," he answered as he raised a hand and wiped away his own tears. Andrew had quieted but was still crying softly, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

Foyle ran a hand gently across his back as he spoke. "It wasn't your fault, Andrew. I know you did everything you could to keep them safe, but it wasn't your fault that they died." His voice was soft and loving, but he chose his words carefully. He wished he could erase his son's guilt with his words alone.

He felt Andrew shake his head. "But, Dad…"

"No, Andrew, look at me." His son lifted his head and Foyle looked squarely into his blood shot eyes. "It wasn't your fault, Andrew. Men die in war and it's bloody awful but it wasn't my fault when two of my friends died in the Battle of the Somme, and it isn't your fault that your squadron lost eight men."

"Twelve, if you count Rex, Douglas, Peter and Murray."

"Twelve then," Foyle said. "If you must blame someone blame the Germans, blame Hitler but do not blame yourself, Andrew. They knew, just as you did, what the risks were when they signed up. The fact that they died is tragic - and it always will be - but it is not _your_ fault."

Andrew ducked his head, wiped his eyes and then mumbled, "Will it always hurt like this, Dad?"

Foyle felt his jaw twitch. _God he hated the war! Bloody Hitler! What happened to the 'war to end all wars?' What had they fought for if not to save their sons from this kind of pain?_

"No, you will always miss them but it gets easier to bear…" He paused and swallowed before continuing "…just like Mum."

Andrew nodded and laid his head down on his father's leg. He was too wrung out and exhausted to move or care that he had been 13 years old the last time he had purposefully fallen asleep against his father.

As he watched Andrew settle against his leg, Foyle suddenly became aware of just how chilly the room was. He looked across and saw that the fire was only smoldering now. _It won't do Andrew any good to get a chill. _'He squeezed his son's shoulder, "Andrew?"

"Mhh…I'm tired, Dad."

"I know, Son," Foyle said. "Want to go up to bed?"

"Fine here"

Sensing that his son was probably too tired to make it up the stairs just now - and was certainly too big for him to carry - he settled for the next best thing. "Right. Well, sit up for a moment."

"Why?"

"I need to stoke the fire."

"Alright," said Andrew as he pushed himself up sleepily and leaned back against the settee with his eyes closed.

Five minutes later, his father had stoked the fire and retrieved his book as well as the ignored tumbler of whiskey. He then began to work off Andrew's boots. "There now, put your legs up…that's it." He eased his son's long legs up onto the settee and covered him gently with a blanket before pausing to decide where to sit.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Stay?" The question was soft and almost childish, and Foyle felt himself smile.

"Yes, Andrew, I'm staying." With those words he carefully settled himself on the settee by Andrew's head. A minute later he felt Andrew squirm. He looked down just as his son rested his head on his leg.

Andrew let out a contented sigh. For the first time in weeks the RAF fighter pilot felt safe. He was covered with a blanket knitted by his grandmother many years ago as he rested like a child against his father's leg on their settee. He felt Foyle's hand brush the hair off his forehead and sighed again before giving himself over to a sleep he so desperately needed.

Foyle took a sip from the crystal tumbler and smiled softly as he watched Andrew drift off to sleep. He let his mind wander back over the years to the first time he had put his son to sleep like this.

Late into the night Christopher Foyle sat on the settee in his dimly lit lounge, gently smoothing his son's hair, as his eyes and thoughts took him far away.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: First off thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter it really means a lot! Sorry for the delay getting this chapter up, I've spent the last few days moving back home from university.

This chapter was very kindly edited by LauraRaposa, so a massive thank you to her.

Again I own nothing and really hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think

Chapter 2

Christopher Foyle woke instinctively at 6 a.m. and blinked up at the ceiling. A frown creased on his forehead as he realized it was not the ceiling in his bedroom. The frown deepened as he realized he wasn't even in a bed but rather slumped awkwardly in a chair. His searching gaze landed on his sleeping son. And then it all came back.

He sat up and massaged his sore neck muscles as the memories of the previous evening flooded back: A tired and heartbroken Andrew had turned up unexpectedly at their home on Steep Lane to reveal that he had gone AWOL from his RAF squadron.

Foyle rubbed his face and felt his chest slightly tighten at the memory of what had followed. He hadn't seen his son that upset since his mother died nine years before.

He smiled softly at the memory of his grown up son curled up on the settee fast asleep with his head in his father's lap. He looked not much different from the little boy that he had been. Foyle sat there for hours softly stroking Andrew's hair and giving thanks that his son was safe at home.

Foyle drifted off at some point in the night. But he recalled being jolted awake by Andrew in the throes of a nightmare. He quickly soothed the writhing boy, and then guided him up the stairs and into bed. Feeling dog-tired himself he crossed the hallway and collapsed on his own bed.

But his sleep had been short lived. It was just after 2 a.m. that he bolted out of bed toward the sound of tortured yells coming from Andrew's bedroom. He rushed across the hall to find his son consumed once again in a nightmare. It didn't long to quiet Andrew, but the nightmares didn't stop. After his second dash to Andrew's side, Foyle decided to set up camp next to his son's bed. He stole across the hall to fetch his dressing gown, slippers and the eiderdown from his bed.

Foyle was pleased this morning that his son appeared to be resting peacefully. He felt a lump form in his throat when he thought of the 12 fathers who would never again get to hug their sons. The thought prompted him to rise from his makeshift bed, bend to kiss his boy's head and pray. _Please, please, bring my son safely back to me when this bloody war is done._

By the time Foyle bathed, dressed and headed downstairs to put the kettle on, he realized he didn't want to leave Andrew's side today. After the events of last night and early this morning, he couldn't bear to leave his son alone. He crossed into the hallway, checked his pocket watch for the time, and rang Hugh Reid at home.

"Reid here, go ahead," said his longtime friend and colleague who sounded distracted.

"Hugh, it's Christopher. Listen, I'm going to take the day off. I know…"

"A day _off,_" Reid interrupted. "Christopher, are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Hugh."

"Then why do you need the day off?" Reid paused as if something just occurred to him. "Oh, Christopher, it's not Andrew, is it? Has something happened?"

Foyle opened his mouth to explain, and then closed it again when he realized that regulations would require Hugh to report Andrew's desertion. While he trusted his friend, he didn't want to put him in a career-threatening position.

He realized Hugh had misinterpreted his silence when his friend's voice came softly over the line, "Christopher, something's happened, hasn't it? I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Nnnno, Hugh, it's fine. Nothing's happened."

"Andrew's fine?"

"As fine as anyone is these days, I suppose."

The DCS heard his friend sigh. "Look, Christopher, it's too early for riddles. What the devil is the matter?"

"Why do you think something's wrong," Foyle asked.

Hugh sighed again. "Because you haven't taken a day off since…Oh, Christopher, it's today isn't it? Nine years since, Ros-…God, I'm sorry, I should have thought."

"Hugh, Hugh, please, it's fine. It was two days ago actually and I…"

"What? Why didn't you say something?"

"I was fine."

"Right. So you're not working today because you're _fine_?

It didn't take a career as a police detective to know what Hugh was implying. And while it wasn't strictly true, it did turn out to be the excuse he needed. He was only stretching the truth a bit.

Foyle sighed. "It was a late night, Hugh, and I'm not exactly sure I'd be fit company for anyone today. I'm sure Milner can…"

"Of course, Milner can handle whatever comes in," said Reid. "I'm dreadfully sorry for not realizing the date the other day. I feel like a terrible cad."

"Please, don't. I didn't expect anyone to remember. Andrew wasn't even down."

Hugh Reid felt even worse knowing that his friend silently mourned the death of his beloved wife without even his son by his side.

"Take the day, Christopher. Can I bring you anything?"

"No, no, thank you, Hugh, I'm fine," said Foyle. "Will you have Milner call me when he arrives so we can discuss what's come in?"

"No, I certainly will not," said Reid. "You need a day away from police work and Milner will manage just fine on his own. I'll come by in the evening, maybe we can have a drink?"

"No, no need for that, Hugh. But I appreciate the thought."

"It would actually make me feel better, Christopher."

Foyle could hear the guilt in his friend's voice and knew Hugh wouldn't rest until he saw for himself that his friend was in fine form.

"Well, if you insist…"

"I do insist," Reid said. "I'm off at 4."

"Right. You'll tell Sam she doesn't need to come today?"

"I will. And I will see you later, right?"

"Yes, and thank you, Hugh."

"No trouble at all."

Foyle returned to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast but kept an ear tuned to the second floor. All he heard was silence. After he ate a poached egg and toast, he cleared the table and did the washing up. When finished, he stood for a minute and thought: "What next?" He wasn't used to free time in morning.

With little to occupy him, Foyle decided to dash out to buy a newspaper. He was back within 15 minutes and immediately checked on Andrew. He found his son fast asleep, so he settled himself in his favorite chair in the lounge with a cuppa and the news of the day.

Ironically, today the newspaper listed the RAF men lost to the war. Even though he knew his son was safely asleep upstairs, he couldn't stop the spurt of panic that always ran through him as he scanned the Fs. Of course, he had little to fear by reading the list this morning. But because he had the time - which he rarely did - he carefully scanned the rest of the page for anyone from Andrew's squadron. He found one: Thomas Johnston, aged 20.

Foyle closed his eyes and muttered a soft prayer for the boy and his family. He wondered when Thomas Johnston had died, and if he was part of the eight men his son told him about last night. God forbid it was another member of the squadron for Andrew to mourn.

He knew another death of one of his fellow fighter pilots would weigh heavily on Andrew's already tortured mind. He hoped that his son already knew about Johnston. He certainly didn't want to deliver the news after last night. _How much more can Andrew take?_

Foyle tried to focus on the rest of the paper but soon found himself upstairs in the doorway of Andrew's boyhood room watching him sleep. Foyle reassured himself that while Andrew was not exactly fine, he was at least safe for the moment.

He had just finished his lunch at the dining room table when he heard the unmistakable sounds of Andrew getting up. _How can one boy make so much noise?_ Shaking his head he gathered up his dishes and headed to the kitchen to make Andrew a meal. _He'll be hungry…as always._

Foyle was almost done when he heard Andrew thunder down the stairs only to stop dead in the hall. _Must have spotted my hat and coat._ His deduction proved correct as a moment later Andrew's voice rang out, "Dad?"

"In the kitchen, Andrew."

"Dad, what are you doing here? You haven't been suspended again have you?"

"Good morning - well, I suppose its afternoon - to you, too, Andrew."

His son just looked at him with the trademark Foyle eyebrow raised.

"No, I haven't been suspended again, thank you very much," said Foyle. "Just took the day off. You hungry?"

Before Andrew could process what was happening, he found himself ensconced at the table with a plate full of beans and toast and a cup of tea. Foyle sat across from him with his own tea and studied him carefully while he ate. _His colour is better than yesterday. The circles under his eyes are smaller and he seems to have lost a little of the darkness that had clung to him so heavily. Not fine, but at least better._

"Sleep alright?" Foyle wasn't sure how much Andrew would remember about last night. Apart from the first nightmare, when he had to wake him so he could get him upstairs, he had been able to settle Andrew quickly before he woke up.

Andrew looked up at him and then back down at his plate. _I remember falling asleep on the settee after sobbing all over Dad. He had his hand in my hair, and I remember a voice telling me that everything was going to be fine. Maybe I dreamed that…_

He again looked up from his plate and saw the gentle concern and compassion that he always associated with his father written plainly across his face.

"Yes, Dad, I did thanks." Andrew replied, "Best sleep I've had in ages."

Foyle smiled. "I'm glad, Son. You looked like you could do with it."

Andrew felt himself flush slightly, and took a big sip of tea to try and cover it. "Look, Dad, I'm sorry about last night, I'm not sure…"

Foyle shook his head. He expected this, but it still hurt him that his son seemed to think he wasn't allowed to show his emotions. _That's one thing the military teaches you too well._

It had taken Rosalind's gentle love to remind him that he was allowed to express emotions again, and it looked like Andrew would have to be taught the same lesson. He wished, as he so often did, that his wife was still alive. She would know how to gently reach past the war-hardened exterior and find their boy again. _Help me, Rose. Help me to do this properly._

Foyle cleared his throat. "Andrew, last night is nothing to be ashamed of."

He heard his son snort, and raised his head to look him in the eye.

"I'm serious, Andrew. What you have seen and what you have had to do over the past few months are bloody awful. I'd be very worried if it didn't upset you. I understand that as one of the veterans in the squadron you feel that you need to be strong for the others and try and keep their spirits up. I respect that and I'm very proud of you. But, Andrew, please don't _ever_ feel that you need to hide your emotions from me, especially when you are home."

Foyle paused and took a sip of tea while he considered how best to continue. "War is hell, Andrew. You know that now although I wish you didn't. One of the worst things about war is what it does a man's heart. It makes him question things he has held as true his whole life. I always believed that killing was wrong. I still do. But in France I found myself having to choose between killing or being killed - just as you do everyday."

He paused again to choose his words carefully. Andrew had been so fragile last night, and although he seemed better today, he knew he had to tread carefully.

As for Andrew, he sat in stunned silence for he could never remember his father speak so candidly about his time in the army. He had known all his life that his father had served in the last war, but he quickly learned the topic was not open for discussion. A pained look had filled his father's face every time the Great War was mentioned, one that he had never understood - until now.

Now Andrew had his own demons. He realized with sudden clarity that if he should be lucky enough to make it through, and eventually have children of his own, he would be just as reluctant to discuss this war as his father was to discuss the first one.

He blinked at the sudden moisture in his eyes. He was humbled by his father's willingness to dredge up his own painful memories of what he called "the worst three years of his life" to help him.

Unaware of his son's personal revelation, Foyle took another sip of tea and continued, his speech slow and measured as always.

"If you let it, war will fill you with so much hatred and bitterness that you will forget what you were fighting for in the first place," said Foyle. "And instead of hating war, you will come to embrace it, using it as an outlet for all your anger at the world. As soon as that happens you have lost everything that is worth fighting for. You have lost the thing that makes us all human - your compassion. I saw it happen to too many men around me. I worried it was going to happen to me, and it might have if I hadn't had your mother."

He took a long drink of tea trying to ease the lump in his throat. "It was her letters, so full of love and hope that kept me going. They helped me to believe that there was still a spark of goodness in the world that was actually worth fighting to protect. You see, without that, Andrew, a man is lost.

"Military disciple tells you that tears are a sign of weakness, and that's complete nonsense. It is the very fact that you care enough to cry that tells me that you haven't lost yourself to this bloody war. And while I hate to see you upset, I would rather have you cry then have you turn into a battle-hardened man who is incapable of showing his feelings.

"Tears do not make you weak, Andrew. They show me that you are strong enough to still care despite all the horrors that the war has thrown at you. I am so very, very proud of the man you have become."

Andrew sat there unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

He was not surprised by the love and compassion that had filled his father's speech. However, Andrew was shocked by how much he needed to hear his father's words. He hadn't realized just how much he had needed his father's strength and love until he had fallen to pieces last night and let his father soothe his aching heart.

Andrew stood trying to blink back the tears, and walked toward his father. Foyle, his face filled with worry, wondered if he had said too much. But before he could fret further, Andrew was in his arms, his face buried against his neck.

"Thank you, Dad," said Andrew, his voice was thick with tears and muffled by Foyle's shoulder.

There was so much more that Andrew wanted to say to his father. But "thank you" was all he could manage to repeat through his tears.

For a few seconds he tried to fight the tears, but then he remembered his father's words: "Crying means you are strong enough to still care despite all the horrors that war has thrown at you."

And oh, how he cared. Each loss – Rex, Douglas – cut at his very soul despite how much he tried to hide it. But here at home, being comforted by his usually reticent father, he suddenly felt safe enough and strong enough to let go and grieve.

So for the third time in less then 24 hours, Andrew Foyle found himself sobbing uncontrollably in his father's arms.

Foyle had breathed a sigh of relief at Andrew's words. The last thing he had wanted was to add to his son's burden by accidently saying the wrong thing. He heard Andrew's breathing hitch and felt his back stiffen as he tried to hold back the tears.

Foyle rubbed gently at his son's stiff shoulders._ Come on, Andrew. Let it out, Son._

Almost as if his son had heard his thoughts, the sobs suddenly intensified and Foyle found himself temporarily off balance as Andrew sagged against him sobbing desperately.

He closed his eyes, his heart torn between pain at his son's despair and relief that Andrew was finally letting it out. Yes, he had cried last night but that was from exhaustion more than anything. Now, his son was in mourning, the names of fallen friends uttered in shaky breaths against his father's collar.

Foyle didn't try to quiet Andrew. He just held him and let him pour all his hurt and sorrow out on his shoulder. He wasn't sure how long it took, but finally his son's sobbing abated and his breathing started to level out.

Foyle pulled back slightly to get a look at his son's face, but Andrew kept it buried determinedly in his shoulder. "Want to try and sit down for a bit?" He felt Andrew nod. "Right. Come on then."

He gently led Andrew toward the living room and sat him down on the settee. He lowered himself next to his aggrieved son and placed a hand on the back of his neck. Andrew turned, and, as he had last night, buried his face in his father's waistcoat.

"Why, Dad? Why did they have to die?" His voice was rough from crying and it tore at Foyle's heart. He gently carded a hand through Andrew's thick hair and answered, "I don't know, Andrew, no one does."

"But it's not fair, Dad."

"No, it isn't." It was the same discussion they'd had last night and one he had with himself many times.

"I…I miss them, Dad." Andrew's voice was soft and full of pain.

Foyle cursed Hitler for the hundredth time for causing his son such pain.

"I know you do, Son, I know you do."

Andrew was quiet for a long time. He was comforted by the scent of his father's aftershave, but it was Foyle's presence that eased the ache in his heart. Andrew knew he had to go back to his squadron. _I can't leave the lads to face Jerry alone. _He would return, but not yet. He wasn't quite ready to tear himself from the cocoon of his father's embrace where nothing, not even Hitler, could harm him.

His eyelids felt heavy, and he shifted slightly to find a more comfortable position. Sleep was tugging at him but there was something he wanted to say first.

"Thanks, Dad," said Andrew for what seemed like the 40th time in 24 hours. And with that, he fell asleep – once again - with his head in his father's lap. He was exhausted but somehow felt lighter then he had in weeks.

Christopher Foyle looked down at his sleeping boy, a sad smile on his lips.

"Anytime, Son," he murmured as he brushed back the hair that flopped across Andrew's eyes.

Foyle leaned his head back and closed his eyes against the tide of grief and memory that roared up at him. He felt sorrow for Andrew and his friends, and regret that he couldn't do more to ease his boy's pain and the old ache of loss. The faces of his old war buddies swam before him covered in mud, just as they had been back in those bloody trenches.

He took a shuddering breath and looked down at his son again as he remembered another boy so many years ago that had slept in much the same position worn out by the grief of too much war and too many lost friends. But that man had been Christopher Foyle, and he hadn't been lying in his father's lap on a settee in Hastings. He was in a cold, muddy trench in France, leaning up against a fellow soldier whose name he'd never learned for he had died in the next charge.

But Foyle neither forgot him nor the words he had whispered to him: "Let it out, laddie. No one will think less of you. If you can still cry then ye' know your still alive."

In the long months that had followed that day, Foyle often thought of those words. In fact, he repeated them to other soldiers as they all worked to keep each other sane in the hell on earth in which they had found themselves.

He glanced down at his son once again, thankful that Andrew was in the RAF, if only because it meant he could come home when the war got too much. _Please let him come home safely._ It was a prayer he had said everyday since Andrew had enlisted. He whispered it aloud now and again ran a hand through his boy's hair as he fought back the memories of 24 years ago.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks again to everyone who reviewed. I am finding it a rather odd experience to have my story on a public forum so I'm not sure if it will leave it up or not but here is another chapter while I decide.

Again very kindly edited by LauraRaposa, so a big thanks to her.

I still own nothing and really hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think

Chapter 3

A knock at the front door shook Foyle from his reverie. He glanced up and was shocked to see it was growing dark outside. A quick check of the clock on the mantle showed it was 4:15 p.m. He had been sitting here on the settee for over two hours.

He looked down at Andrew, still fast asleep on the settee his breathing deep and even. Foyle chewed at his lip slightly. He hated to disturb his son's slumber, but he couldn't wait any longer to do the blackout and with Andrew's head in his lap it seemed unlikely that he would be able to get up without disturbing him.

He frowned, and then again heard the knocking that shook him from his daze. _Who in the world could that be? _Then he remembered Hugh Reid say he would drop by when he left the station. _I really should go let him in_. He was about to rise when he heard a key snick in the lock. _Ah, Hugh still had his spare house key from that week I stayed in London._ _I must remember to ask for it back, not that it matters…_

"Christopher? Are you here," asked Hugh as he came through the hall hat in hand.

Trying to pitch his voice softly enough so it wouldn't disturb his sleeping son, he responded, "Yes, Hugh. I'm in the lounge."

Seconds later, Reid appeared in the doorway. "Christopher, are you alright? I wouldn't have let myself in but I was worried. Not like you to have not done the blackout and…" He broke off as he caught sight of the sleeping Andrew stretched across the settee, his head resting in his father's lap.

He looked down at Foyle, noting the weariness in his face with concern. Andrew was obviously knackered, but Hugh was grateful the boy didn't appear to be hurt.

"Christopher?" Foyle looked up and saw the rest of Reid's question written plainly on his face. He looked down and saw a slight frown creasing Andrew's face, so he ran his hand through his hair to settle him before he addressed Reid.

"Hugh, I'm dreadfully sorry to ask, but would you mind doing the blackout? Frightfully rude of me I know, but I'd really rather not wake Andrew just at the moment. I'll explain things after but it's getting rather late."

Reid nodded at once, "Of course, Christopher, no trouble at all. Is he alright?"

While Andrew didn't look injured, he couldn't deny the worry in Foyle's eyes when his friend looked up at him.

"He's exhausted but otherwise he's fine - or will be. I hope to God he will be."

The last was said just above a whisper but Reid caught it and frowned. Clearly something had happened with Andrew that had shaken Christopher. He desperately wanted to ask but knew that he needed to get the blackout done first.

"I'll see to the blackout then."

Foyle shot him a grateful look and said, "Thank you, Hugh, I do appreciate it."

In the 15 minutes that it took Hugh to draw the curtains and prepare the house against the Jerrys, Foyle remained on the settee to comfort Andrew but also to decide just how much to reveal to Reid about Andrew's AWOL status. He wanted to be completely honest, but he hated the idea of placing his friend in a position that would jeopardize his career.

He continued to mull his options as Reid re-entered the room to report that the blackout was complete.

"Thank you, Hugh. So sorry for being such a poor host."

"It couldn't matter less, old man," said Reid. "Now, what's your pleasure? Tea or scotch?"

"Which ever you prefer although I'm afraid you will have to fetch it yourself," said Foyle. "As you can see, my son has me rather trapped here."

"Scotch it is then. I've been counting on a glass of your Glenlivet all day!"

Foyle smiled, "Right. The glasses are just…"

Reid waved him off. "I know, Christopher. It's hardly the first time I've helped myself to your scotch."

In minutes, both men had an inch of single malt in a crystal tumbler, and Reid was seated in Foyle's favorite chair, studying his friend carefully over the top of his glass.

Hugh had been concerned about Christopher ever since he had rung his house early this morning to say he was taking the day off. It was so unlike him to take anytime off especially when he had a case. The implication that it somehow revolved around Rosalind concerned him, too. He felt dreadful for having missed the actual day. He usually took Christopher around to the pub for a drink after his friend visited his wife's grave. But it slipped his mind this week.

Moreover, Hugh couldn't remember the anniversary of Rosalind's death affecting Christopher this badly in recent years. So what was it about _this _year that moved his friend to need a day off to recover?

He was able to reassure himself somewhat that if something had been truly wrong over the past few days someone at the station – most likely Milner - would have noticed and informed him. That thought had kept him from rushing straight over to Steep Lane this morning as soon as he got off the phone.

But when he had arrived this afternoon to find the blackout not done and no one to answer his knock at the door, the worry returned with thundering intensity. _Had Christopher gone out to the pub early enough in the day that he hadn't done the blackout? Had he fallen ill?_ The last thought had worried him sufficiently to dig out the spare key Christopher had given him and cautiously open the door.

Of all the likely scenarios played out in his brain, he wasn't prepared to see Christopher, with a far away look in his eyes, sitting on the settee with his grown son fast asleep across his lap.

The memory of the haunted look in Christopher's blue eyes, and his murmured words "I hope to God he will be" made Reid shiver. There was clearly something wrong with Andrew and it had shaken his friend deeply.

Hugh cleared his throat and said, "I didn't know Andrew was down. I thought you said he hadn't been able to get away for the, errr, anniversary."

"Err, no, he turned up unexpectedly last night," said Foyle, as he took a sip of scotch and returned his eyes to his slumbering son.

Reid sighed in frustration. Christopher Foyle could be an enigmatic man at times and this appeared to be one of them.

"Come on, Christopher. What's the matter?" said Hugh. "Andrew's not just tired, is he? And it wasn't because of Rosalind that you needed the day off, was it?

Foyle sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. "No, it wasn't, Hugh, and I'm sorry to have lied to you, its just…" He paused to take another swig of scotch before continuing. "It's just that I really didn't want to leave Andrew on his own today, not after last night."

"Then why didn't you just tell me that, man," asked Reid. "Why bring Rosalind into this?"

Reid was very confused. Of all the men he had worked with during his police career, Christopher Foyle had to be the most doggedly honest, yet he appeared to have purposely lied to him. _This had to come back to Andrew. He couldn't think of anything other than his love for his only son that would make Christopher willingly skirt the truth._

"Sorry to have lied, Hugh…I truly am, but it was with good intentions. You see, Andrew didn't just turn up unexpectedly, he's gone AWOL."

Hugh's mouth dropped open. _Andrew Foyle, who had loved all things that flew since he was barely old enough to run? The boy, who despite his joking, charming manner, was just as morally upright as his father, deserting? It just didn't make sense._

"But why, Christopher?"

Foyle spoke softly as he looked down at his sleeping boy. "He's seen so much, Hugh, so much death. Do you know he told me he flew15 ops last week?"

"_Fifteen?_ Christ, that's more than two a day!"

Foyle slowly nodded. "Yup, he's the veteran in the squadron now…has to go on almost every op because he has the most experience - or so he tells me." He chewed on his lip for a moment before continuing. "I didn't want to tell you he'd deserted because I didn't want to get you in a pickle with the higher ups, they'd expect you to report him of course."

"Well, they can just sod off," Reid said indignantly. "You have to know, Christopher, I would never…"

Hugh sounded concerned, but Foyle cut him off before he could continue. "Of course, I never doubted you, Hugh. I was thinking about you, Elaine and the girls, really. I know it could hurt your career with the force if this got out."

Reid nodded as he understood and appreciated his friend's concern. He dropped his eyes to the boy, now a man, sleeping with his head in Christopher's lap.

"Is he ill, Christopher?"

Foyle shook his head. "Just exhausted. Actually, he's beyond exhausted really. I've never seen him so tired. Do you remember in France when it felt like everyone around us was either dead, dying or trying to kill you?"

Reid nodded. He was a few years younger than Christopher so he had only spent a few weeks at the front but it had been enough to leave him with nightmares to this day. He knew Foyle spent three years in France, although this was the first time he'd ever heard him speak of it directly. Hugh shuddered to think what type of horrors his friend had seen in that time.

"I think Andrew's reached that point," said Foyle, his voice shaking slightly. "I don't know how to help him, Hugh."

Seconds ticked by as both men took a bracing swig of scotch.

Reid hadn't seen that look of helplessness on Christopher's face since Rosalind died, and he felt just as left-footed now as he had then. The thought of one of his girls experiencing anything like he had in France was one of his worst nightmares.

He looked at his friend and realized with horror that it had to be one of his, too, one that he had seen come true. The thought was sickening, and it was a full minute before he could collect himself enough to speak and even then his voice was rough.

"You're doing it, Christopher. You're letting him know that he is not alone. That even in the middle of this bloody war he can still come home and be safe. And most importantly _you_ are here. You will let him be or at least try to be a young man again - not an experienced fighter pilot leading ops - but a 22 year old who has been through hell."

Foyle nodded. A part of him knew that Hugh was right, but it still didn't seem like enough.

"Are you alright?" Reid felt it was a foolish question for it had been clear from the moment he'd walked in the house that Christopher was anything but alright, but he still had to ask.

Foyle nodded again. "Yes, I will probably be in tomorrow but that will depend on Andrew."

Reid finished his scotch, "No rush Christopher, I mean it. Stay as long as he needs you. We'll carry on. Now, can I get you anything?"

Foyle shook his head, "No, thank you, Hugh, and thank you again for your help this evening."

"No trouble at all, I assure you," said Reid, as he rose from the armchair. Now, if you're sure I can't get you anything, I should head home. I do try to get in before the girls are in bed if I can. Ring me up tomorrow and let me know how Andrew is doing. Don't feel like you need to come in if you're needed here, alright?"

"Right, thank you, Hugh. I really do appreciate this."

"Just focus on taking care of him, Christopher. I'll see to everything else." He crossed to the settee and placed a firm hand on Foyle's shoulder as he passed. "I'll see myself out. Good night, Christopher."

"G'night, Hugh."

The front door opened and closed leaving them in silence except for Andrew's quiet breathing.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed and LauraRaposa for editing. It didn't feel right to not finish what I started so here is another chapter.

I still own nothing but I do hope you enjoy the chapter and that you will leave a review to let me know what you thought.

Chapter 4

Andrew awoke slowly, then blinked and stared at a grey waistcoat that looked very much like one worn by his father. _That can't be right. _He blinked again and tried to roll over so he could look around, only to feel a firm hand on his shoulder that restricted his movement.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Andrew," said Foyle.

"Dad?" _Am I still asleep? Why on earth is Dad here?_

"Yep, and unless you have a desire to fall off the settee onto the floor, I suggest you lie back down for a moment."

Andrew did as he was told and felt his father's hand leave his shoulder and his gentle fingers running through his hair. He relaxed instinctively at the touch. Andrew closed his eyes for a moment before they flew open as everything came back: _Greville getting burned in his Spit, going AWOL, coming home, Dad's talk, the relief of being able to cry and being the one to fall apart for a change instead of the one being strong. _

As one of the few veterans in his squadron left, Andrew was usually the one the chaps turned to after an op went bad. It was on his shoulder that tears were shed. And it was his job to wake them from their nightmares when their yells filled the barracks, and hold them afterwards as they cried.

It used to be Rex's job, and then once he and Douglas came along, the three of them took turns comforting the younger airmen during the night. It was a sort of insurance policy against the entire trio being too exhausted to fly the next day. But then Rex died, and he and Douglas had been left to take care of the new blood. Now, with Douglas gone, it was Andrew's sole responsibility.

Andrew swallowed against the lump in his throat. He missed his friends terribly and suspected that he always would. But as the most seasoned pilot in the squadron he felt responsible for the safety of the younger men. It was an exhausting burden that weighed heavily on his shoulders.

"You know how much the others look up to you, Foyle. Don't let them down," Wing Commander Turner had told him just the other day. It was a stinging reminder of that cross he had to bear and one that he suddenly found himself too tired to carry.

Looking back on it now, he wasn't sure what the actual tipping point had been. But somewhere between forgetting the anniversary of his own mother's death and Greville nearly being charred to death in the cockpit of his Spit, that it all became too much. There was too much death, too many ops, too much wrong with the whole bloody world. So he had done the only thing that felt right and come home where it was safe, warm and, more importantly, where his father was.

He closed his eyes again and focused on the feel of his father's hand as it brushed through his hair as well as the sharp, clean smell of his aftershave. He sighed. All his life he had felt the safest in his father's arms. As a boy his father comforted him during his nightmares, bandaged his scrapes after football matches and carefully guided him through the heartbreaking loss of his mother. There was nowhere else he wanted to be right now.

Never had he been so grateful for his father's love and strength as he had over the last two days. He had been wired with tension and consumed by grief. He was exhausted by the number of ops he flew and by the lack of sleep; to such an extent that he felt physically ill.

It wasn't just the other lads' nightmares that kept him up at night but his own. In his dreams, he replayed the op when Rex's plane crashed. Andrew had watched the Spit piloted by his best friend as it spiraled down into the drink in flames. As Andrew, to no avail, screamed over the radio for best friend to bail out.

Andrew shuddered instinctively at the memory, but calmed immediately when he felt a strong hand rub gently at his shoulders and heard his father murmur, "Ssh, ssh..."

His father had pulled him from the depths of that nightmare last night. Foyle had gathered his son into his arms and let him sob before he steered Andrew up the upstairs and into bed. Where after two other nightmares he finally fell into the best sleep he had in weeks.

But now he felt exhausted again despite having just woken up. He yawned and closed his eyes only to open them a minute later when his stomach reminded him that it had been an awfully long time since lunch.

"Dad?"

Foyle looked down, slightly surprised, he had been sure Andrew was about to doze off again, "Yes, Andrew?"

"What time is it?"

Foyle glanced at his pocket watch, "Almost six."

Andrew sat up so rapidly that he would have slipped off the settee if Foyle hadn't grabbed his arm to steady him, "What? Dad why didn't you wake me?"

Foyle frowned slightly as he set his book aside and turned to face his son, "Why would I? You clearly needed the rest and neither of us had any engagements to keep."

"Yes, but…" Andrew ran a hand through his hair as he tried to comprehend the fact that he had just slept for 4 hours, half laying in his father's lap. "You must have better things to do then act as my pillow."

"Nope, not today. Anyway, since you're up, I'm going to raid the larder and see what I can come up with for dinner. I don't know about you, but I'm famished."

"Sure, Dad," said Andrew, still a bit dazed. "Dinner sounds great."

Foyle smiled as he stood, stretching his legs. "Good, I'll go get started then."

Andrew leaned his head back against the settee and listened to the familiar sounds of his father moving about the kitchen. The contrast between the comfortable quiet of home and the airbase was sharp. The base was never quiet. Planes landed and took off, the scramble siren screamed, men called to each other across the field or talked quietly in groups. And at night the sound of anti-aircraft fire filled the air. He closed his eyes and let the comfort of being home seep into his bones as he wished, as he so often did now, that he could find a way to take a piece of this homey calm away with him.

When he had first been attached to the RAF squadron he had felt more like a boy away at overnight camp. There was the thrill of flying ops with Rex by his side as they did their bit for king and country. They joked, laughed and reveled in the adventure. When they had been given weekend passes, Andrew had been pleased to see his father but always felt anxious to get back to the airfield and into his Spit.

But that was months ago. Now, Rex and Douglas were dead and the excitement he first felt had matured into a sense of duty and dread. He knew what he had to do. He was proud to play his part. But each time the siren to scramble sounded, he wondered if he would come back or if any of them would return safe. Would there be another empty bunk in the barracks?

He shivered and tried to focus on the familiar creaks of his childhood home and the smell of hot food being prepared in the kitchen by his father. Once his mind settled, he rose off the settee and headed upstairs to wash for dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you for the very encouraging reviews. I am so glad that you are enjoying the story.

As always all credit for the editing goes to LauraRaposa. I own nothing but my own imagination.

Chapter 5

Dinner passed in comfortable silence. Foyle could tell that Andrew was preoccupied and left him to his thoughts. He had learned long ago that, if possible, it was best to let Andrew bring things up in his own time.

They were halfway through their second game of chess when Andrew finally spoke, his eyes fixed on the board. "It's the strangest thing Dad, but sometimes at the base, especially if we're flying a lot, it feels like an island of its own. Like there's just us and the Jerrys, like Hastings doesn't even exist." He paused and looked up at his father to see if he understood what he was trying to say.

Foyle looked back at him sadly and nodded, the words he had said earlier to Reid coming to his mind. "It feels like everyone is either getting killed or trying to kill you?"

Andrew nodded, "Yes, exactly." He paused and took a sip of his single malt. "It was so different before…" - his voice broke slightly but he pushed on - "…before Rex died, you know? It was exciting, fun even, but now…"

He broke off, staring into the fire, as he tried to find the words to explain himself without stirring up more worrisome thoughts for his father. Andrew knew he could be completely honest and tell his father everything, but what good would that do? It would only pile on the torment. Certain things were best left unsaid.

Foyle watched his son struggle to express himself; he felt anger and sorrow doing battle in his heart. He hated Hitler and the Nazis for not only putting his son through this bloody war but for aging him so painfully. He was also sorry he could do little to ease Andrew's heavy burden. All the love and support in the world could never erase the horrors of what his son had seen and done. And that knowledge broke his heart.

"But now each day feels longer then the last," said Andrew. "And each day I wonder if we'll all come home." He blinked and looked up at his father, and Foyle felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared into the tormented eyes of his son.

Andrew did not look 22 years old. Gone was his charming, cheeky boy who he had shipped off to Oxford to read English. The man who stared back at him was aged by war and grief, exhaustion and responsibilities. The mischief that had always sparkled in his eyes was gone. His son was at the end of his tether.

Foyle took a shaky breath and reached for his drink only to discover that his hands were shaking. He gripped the crystal tumbler tightly and took a sip, trying to combat the sudden chill that had settled over his body.

Andrew didn't appear to have noticed. His voice was detached, almost dream-like, as he spoke. "There are days, Dad, where I swear I can't remember who I was before the war. I lie on my bunk and try to think back, and all I ever see is my last op, or maybe my very first one but that's it. It's like I didn't exist before the war." He looked up and forced a wan smile, "Your letters help, though. When I read them I can remember when we used to fish, and that helps. But it seems so long ago, Dad, almost like it was another life."

Foyle nodded. He had felt the same detachment all those years ago, as if there had never been a time in his life when he wasn't cold, muddy and surrounded by death. Rosalind's letters had been his lifeline, and he was glad that his letters provided their son some of the same comfort; he only wished he could do more.

"What if I forget, Dad?" Andrew's voice was quiet but the worry was palpable. "I mean, I forgot the day Mum died for God's sake!" He was about to continue but Foyle cut him off.

"Andrew, you're exhausted," he said. "It's natural to forget things when you're tired. How many of those 15 ops you flew were night ops?"

"Half I suppose," his son shrugged. "We sleep, eat and fly. The time of day doesn't matter too much anymore."

Foyle felt his jaw tighten at this glimpse into his son's daily life. "Then you couldn't have known unless you had seen a calendar, and I guess there aren't a lot of those in the barracks."

"No, not really, Dad."

"So, for the love of God, Andrew, stop blaming yourself," said Foyle. "Please, son. I don't blame you for not being there and neither would Mum."

Andrew nodded but steeled himself to ask the question that really scared him: "But what if I forget her, Dad?"

Foyle closed his eyes and remembered the other time his son had asked him that question. It was two years after Rosalind died and Andrew had been talking with some friends when he realized he had forgotten her birthday.

Foyle had stopped by the graveyard on his way home from work to drop off some flowers where he discovered their son lying in front of her grave stone sobbing. It had taken several hours to quiet Andrew then and he knew the same words would not work now. Andrew had been a boy then, but now he was a man who had seen a war take his friends, his youth and his innocence.

Christopher Foyle looked at his wife's picture, and then into his son's tear-filled eyes. He spoke with all the conviction and love he could summon: "Andrew, you must _never_ confuse what your mind remembers and what your heart remembers. Even if at the moment you are too tired to remember everything about Mum, I promise you that your heart has not forgotten her and it never will."

But Andrew just shook his head. "But Dad, it's like I'm losing myself if I can't remember Mum. How long will it be before I can't remember Rex or Douglas or one of the other chaps? How long until it's all gone and all I have left are memories of war? When I'm here at home I can remember better, but I can't stay here forever and it's not like I can take it away with me.

"At first I could, those first few months it only took a night or two at home to remind me who I was and why I was fighting and it would last for weeks. Now, it only takes a few days back at the airfield and it's like the war has consumed who I used to be and all I have left who is who I am now - Flight Lieutenant Foyle, squadron leader, the man others follow, so often to their death. Honestly, I don't think I like him very much anymore." He gave a bark like laugh that held no humor, and Foyle felt his blood run cold.

_Oh, God, no._ Andrew spoke with a dark despair that frightened him and the look in his eyes was almost wild. He looked at the photo of Rosalind again and prayed, "_Help me, Rose. Help me bring our boy back. Help me stop him from doing something foolish_."

Foyle closed his eyes for a minute before they flew open. _Damn, why didn't I remember it sooner? _He stood and moved to his desk where he opened a drawer and searched through it until he found two envelopes.

He turned back to the fire and found Andrew watching him, his eyes full of curiosity. He took a deep breath and slowly walked back to his chair and sat down. He looked at the envelopes he held in his hand and tried to think of how best to explain.

"Andrew, I know this probably won't help but I do know how you feel. I felt the same way many times when I was in France, and all I can say is you do get through it. I wrote to your mother once and told her almost exactly what you just told me. The letter she wrote in response probably saved my life."

He paused and carefully opened the first envelope withdrawing a handful of yellowed papers, he carefully picked through them, selected one and handed it to Andrew.

His son took it and carefully unfolded the worn page. He gave his father a questioning look. Foyle nodded and Andrew began to read.

_My Darling Christopher,_

_I don't know to whom you were referring in your last letter. The man I married and the man to whom I write letters is one of the best men I know. Listen to me, Christopher, war is terrible because it makes good men do terrible things. I know that you have had to kill, and I know that doing so has upset you dreadfully. Don't you see, my darling? That is how I know you are still the man I married – not some monster as you fear._

_If you had truly lost yourself, you would not care that you had taken lives. You would not care how many men were lost in the last charge or be sick at the thought that you will have to send more over the top today. I have wished a thousand times that none of this had happened and that you could still be here with me in Hastings. But I knew when I fell in love with you that you would always do what you felt was right even if it was difficult. And that is what you are doing._

_I know more than anything that you hate having to send the men over the top, but being the one giving the order does not make you the one who is killing them. If you didn't give the order, someone else would, and they might not pick their moments as carefully as I know you do. I am certain that you do everything in your power to keep the men in your command safe. Please listen to me, Christopher. If you go and get yourself killed then who will look out for them? Who will try and get them more blankets or a couple of nights away from the front?_

_You, Christopher Thomas Foyle, are a good man and a man I want by my side 'til death do us part. This is only a chapter, my love, and one that I pray will be over soon. I wish more then anything that I could hold you in my arms and keep you safe, but I cannot, so you must keep yourself safe for me. Try to think of happy things, like the day you will come home to me or perhaps our beautiful wedding day. Promise me that you will try Christopher, for I cannot imagine life without you._

_With all my love,_

_Your Rose_

Andrew looked up to find his father watching him with a sad smile on his face, and then stared down at the letter in his hand. He felt a lump grow in his throat as he re-read his mother's words through watery eyes: "_Being the one giving the order does not make you the one who is killing them._" To know that his father, a man he respected above all others, had been burdened by the same fears that he now faced but had made it through was comforting in a way that he couldn't really explain.

The younger Foyle did not try to stop the tears that poured down his face to join the old tearstains on the worn page in his hand. Andrew let his dead mother's words, written with such love, understanding and forgiveness soothe some of the fear in his shattered heart.

Foyle stood, crossed to Andrew's chair and placed a hand on the back of his neck.

"Andrew?"

His son stood and Foyle wrapped his arms around his boy holding him close. "You're a good man, Andrew, and I am so proud of you and your mum would be too. You haven't forgotten who you are. You're just too tired to remember right now. When you finally get a proper rest, it will come back. Until then, and you can take my word for it, you're a good man, Andrew." His words were soft and his voice thick with emotion, "It's not your fault that Rex or any of the others died Andrew, it's God awful but that doesn't make it your fault. Just like it wasn't mine."

"Then why does it feel like it is?"

"Because you're a good man Son, and that makes you feel responsible for things that you can't control."

"I want it to be over, Dad, I just want it to be over."

Foyle felt his own tears running down his cheeks as he rocked his son in his arms. "I know you do, Andrew, so do I. But it's like Mum said, 'It's just a chapter, and one that I pray will be over soon.' You just have to try and keep your head up 'til then. You _can _make it through but you have to _try_, Andrew. Please promise me you'll try."

Andrew could hear the tears in his father's voice and realized with a start just how difficult this must be for him. He knew that Dad had tried unsuccessfully to get transferred to London because he didn't feel he was doing enough for the war effort here in Hastings. And he knew that he had fought the first war, the alleged "war to end all wars," to keep his family safe.

But the bloody Jerrys wouldn't go away. And now his father was forced to watch his son battle the same demons. _It must hurt him terribly,_ Andrew thought, as he squeezed his father a little tighter, "I will, Dad. I promise I will."

It was as if reading his mother's words had lifted the dark despair that dogged him for days. He felt lighter somehow as he stood safe in his father's arms.

Foyle's knees felt weak with relief at Andrew's words, and he was grateful for his son's strong arms as it took him a minute to recover himself. "Thank you," he murmured softly into Andrew's hair. "Thank you, son."

He felt Andrew's tears ease and pulled back slightly. He was very relieved to see that the hopelessness that had filled Andrew's eyes since he returned home had finally lifted. _Rose, you've now saved two Foyle men with those words. Thank you, my love, Thank you for bringing our boy back to me._

He gave Andrew a weak smile, "Tea?"

Andrew gave a watery laugh. "Tea sounds wonderful, Dad."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks as always to LauraRaposa for polishing this chapter up for me. I hope you all enjoy it and please let me know what you think

Chapter 6

By the time they were both on their second cup of tea, Foyle felt steadier, his emotions more under control. He turned the second envelope over in his hands thoughtfully as he tried to decide if now was the right time to give it to Andrew.

He had come close twice before – back when Andrew was 15 years old and heartbroken that he had forgotten his mother's birthday, and again after he was at Oxford and he had stumbled home drunk following the funeral of a friend's mother. Andrew had tearfully admitted to his father just how much he missed Rosalind, and how hard it was to watch the other lads with their mums.

Both times Foyle hesitated, but perhaps now it was time. He thought back over Andrew's heartbroken words, "What if I forget her Dad?" _Would this ease or add to his son's emotional burden? 'When I'm here at home I can remember better, but I can't stay here forever and it's not like I can take it away with me.'_ It was true. He couldn't keep Andrew home forever anymore then his son could carry Hastings back with him to the airbase. But he could carry a letter.

His mind made up, he cleared his throat causing Andrew to look up at him. "I meant what I said earlier. Even if you can't remember your mum as well as you would like right at the moment, I know you haven't forgotten her, and you never will. But I also think it's time I gave you this."

Foyle handed the envelope to Andrew who took it curiously, noticing at once that his name, written in his mother's hand, was on the front. He stared at his father and then back at the envelope, clearly confused. "Your mother wrote that before…" Foyle broke off and blinked several times before continuing. "She wanted you to have it when the time was right and I believe it is."

Andrew nodded distractedly, holding the envelope as if it were made of glass. Slowly he ran a finger along the flap and withdrew several sheets of paper. Placing the envelope carefully to one side he smoothed out the paper, and after a quick glance at his father began to read.

_My Darling Boy… _Andrew felt his chest tighten. No one except his mother had ever called him that. He swallowed and kept reading.

_I do not know how old you will be when you read this or what will have happened to make your father believe that it is time for you to receive this letter. I can only hope that it will bring you some small measure of comfort._

_We have just learned that I will not be able to watch you grow into the wonderful man that I know you'll be, to cry at your wedding or hold the children that I hope you will one day have. I am so sorry that I will miss so much of your life, Andrew; a life that I pray will be long, healthy and full of joy. But as there is nothing to be done about that, I hope you will indulge me and allow me to share a little bit of advice and some of the stories that I had hoped one day to share with my grandchildren._

_I will never forget the day you were born, or indeed the sight of your father running out of the bedroom to fetch the midwife when I told him it was time. But mostly I will never forget the first time I saw you and knew you were the most beautiful, perfect baby I had ever laid eyes on. You came into this world loudly - and much more quickly - than anyone expected. And I have often wondered if this means you are destined to drive motorcars or fly those airplanes you are so fascinated with terribly fast._

_Regardless of what you do as an adult, you should know that the day you were born was the happiest day of our (your father and my) lives. I remember handing you to your father for the first time and watching his eyes fill with tears before he looked at me and whispered 'Perfect.' And so, my darling boy, you have been much loved since you drew your first breath. Regardless of what this life has in store for you, please promise me that you will remember that you are loved, my Andrew. So very, very loved._

_I have enjoyed watching you grow and seeing your personality develop. In you I see a little bit of me as well as your father, but mostly there's a spark that is yours alone. Each day for you is an adventure!_

_There are some things you do - like the way your chew on your lip or your stubborn insistence that things be 'fair' - that are so like your Dad that it makes me laugh. But please understand, Andrew, while I, and I suspect many other people, may compare you to your father; we do not expect you to 'be' him. He is a good man and one whom I love with all my heart. You could not find a better man to emulate. But Andrew, I do not want you to be him. There is already one Christopher Foyle. Your job is to be yourself and figure out what __you__ want to do and how __you__ can do you part in making this world a better place._

_This does not mean you need to be a policeman! Although I know most Foyle men do seem to end up on the force. As long as you are a good man, the sort of man I already see in the boy that you are, then you will be doing your part. You are such a happy boy, Andrew, and I hope that life never dims your smile for it can light up a room._

_There are so many things that I wish to tell you, lessons that I had hoped to teach you, milestones that I had hoped to witness. But life, my darling boy, does not always indulge us. I am sorry that I will not get to watch you grow into a man, but I take comfort in knowing that however old you are when you read this letter you will be a man of whom I could be proud. How do I know? I am your mother. I know your heart. You may only be 13 now but you have already shown me what a kind, gentle and caring heart you have._

_Do you remember when you were seven years old and your friend Peter Davis cried because his mother told him she couldn't afford to buy him the new football that he had dreamed about all year? You ran home and begged me to let you give the one you had just received for your birthday to him. Just like Peter you had thought about a new football all year, but you looked at me with those beautiful brown eyes and said, 'I've got my old one but Peter hasn't got one at all and it isn't fair! Please may I give it to him?' I was so proud of you, Andrew. Anyone would have thought you were being given a gift when I agreed. Your smile was so bright._

_Do you also recall when you climbed the tree in the back garden because a kitten was stranded up on a high branch? You fell and broke your arm as you tried to reach the poor thing. And though I know you were in pain, your first question, as your father and I bent over you anxiously, was if the kitten was safe. I knew that day that you were well on your way to being a good man. _

_So even though I will miss many other examples as you grow up, I can confidently say that you will be a good man, one of the best. For between you and your father there is nothing else that you could be._

_I do not know what has occurred that prompted your father to give you this letter, and part of me hopes you will never see it for I cannot stand the idea of you being so upset. But as you read this, Andrew, promise me that you will not give up on yourself. _

_Life can be terribly hard, and sometimes giving up will seem like the best option. But you are stronger than that, Andrew. It is perfectly fine to need a rest, to step back and gather your wits. However, you must promise me that if it is something you desperately want or something that you must do, you will try again. Being strong does not mean that you will never need help or never shed a tear. It means that you are brave enough to ask for assistance when you need it and to try again when the odds are against you._

_You can do anything you put your mind to, Andrew. I know for I have watched you for 13 years. I never saw a child more determined to walk. You fell so often that you scared the dickens out of your father and me. But each time you fell, you picked yourself up and tried again, until one day you could walk without toppling over!_

_Life is very much like learning to walk, Andrew. Sometimes it will feel like nothing is going your way and everywhere you turn there are obstacles. But as long as you continue to try, you will get there in the end. If you do feel like giving up, promise you will try just one more time for me._

_I would continue, but there is little else I can say except this: I love you very much, Andrew, and I am so very proud of you. Promise me that wherever life takes you, you will remember you have my love and admiration always._

_God bless and Godspeed, my darling boy,_

_Your loving Mother_

Andrew drew a shaky breath and looked up at his father. Tears stung his eyes and he clutched the letter tightly in his hands. He opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn't form the words. Foyle watched him with concern. _Was it right to give him the letter or have I just upset him more?_

He watched his son take sip of tea and wipe his eyes before trying again. "Thank you, Dad." His voice was thick with emotion and the words were just above a whisper. "This is the best letter I have ever received," he told his father with a smile.

The smile was watery but Foyle was delighted to see that a glint of light had returned to Andrew's eyes.

Christopher looked at the framed photograph of his wife with love and loss swelling in his chest together as they had for years. _Thank you, my Rose, for knowing all those years ago exactly what our son needed at a moment like this. _

He smiled at Andrew, and for a long time they sat in silence lost in the memories of a woman they both loved deeply and missed dearly.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, the feedback if much appreciated. Thanks also to LauraRaposa for editing this chapter. I hope you all enjoy it and please let me know what you think

Chapter 7

The desk sergeant shook his head at the RAF Commander's inquiry, "I'm sorry, sir, but Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle isn't in yet today and he wasn't in yesterday neither."

Wing Commander Turner's face tightened, "I see."

"Can I take a message, sir? I'm sure Mr. Foyle will be sorry to have missed you."

The Commander shook his head. "I'm afraid the nature of the message is such that I wish to deliver it in person if possible."

Sergeant Rivers felt his heart sink slightly. It was common knowledge around the station that the boss' only son was a fighter pilot and that many squadrons had suffered heavy losses. Rivers hoped that the Wing Commander hadn't come to deliver bad news. He had watched the DCS age overnight when he lost his wife and shuddered to think what the loss of his only son would do to the quiet man they all respected. "I understand, sir. Could you leave a number where Mr. Foyle can reach you?"

Commander Turner hesitated. _I've broken protocol by just being here. It looks like Flight Lieutenant Foyle will have to face the consequences of his actions_. He sighed and said, "No, thank you, Sergeant. I will be on my way."

Turner made for the door only to be stopped by the sergeant's urgent voice. "Just a minute, sir, here's the man who would know best. Superintendent Reid, Sir, this is Wing Commander Turner of the RAF. He's looking for Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle, Sir."

The Commander turned to see a tall man in a police uniform striding toward him, hand outstretched. "Wing Commander, I'm Superintendent Hugh Reid, please come this way," he said as he directed the military man into his office. "We can speak in here."

Reid closed the door behind them, rounded the desk and sat down, gesturing for Turner to do the same. "What can I do for you, Wing Commander? I understand that you are looking for DCS Foyle?"

"Yes, I had hoped to speak with him about something rather urgent but I understand that he is not in today."

Reid nodded. "No, he hasn't come in yet today. Might I be of service to you?"

Turner shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Superintendent. It is a rather sensitive matter. If Mr. Foyle is unavailable then I'm afraid I will take my leave."

He moved to stand but Reid put up a hand to stop him. "Forgive the intrusion, sir, but does this in anyway relate to Mr. Foyle's son, Flight Lieutenant Andrew Foyle?"

Turner nodded. "It does, indeed, Superintendent, but I am not at liberty to tell you more than that."

Reid nodded. "I understand sir, but I also know that Mr. Foyle will be anxious to speak with you about anything regarding his son. If you can spare a moment, I will ring him at home. If he is unable to come in, perhaps it could be discussed over the phone?"

Turner hesitated then nodded. Reid rang the familiar number and said a silent prayer that Christopher would pick up the phone.

It rang twice before Christopher's crisp voice answered, "Foyle here."

Reid breathed a sigh of relief. "Christopher, it's Hugh."

Foyle glanced at his watch and instantly felt guilty for not ringing him earlier to say he had no intention of working today. "Hugh, awfully sorry. I was going to ring…"

Reid cut him off. "Christopher, Wing Commander Turner is in my office. He hopes to meet with you about something rather urgent."

Foyle felt his heart rate suddenly increase. _Andrew's CO? It must be about Andrew being AWOL, but why would he come to see me?_ Aloud he said, "Um, can he wait? If you send a driver I could be there within 15 minutes."

"Hold on, I'll inquire." Reid looked up at Turner and asked, "Are you able to wait Commander? DCS Foyle is eager to meet with you and can be here within the quarter hour."

Again Turner hesitated. _He was fully aware of how his superiors would react if they found out about his visit but at the same time he did not to lose a good young pilot when it felt avoidable._

He nodded, and watched the Superintendent's shoulders relax as he spoke into the black Bakelite receiver. "He said he will wait, Christopher, yes. I'll send a car around at once."

Reid rang off and smiled at Turner. "DCS Foyle asked me to pass on his thanks. He will be here directly." He stood. "Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I need to dispatch a car to fetch him. May I bring you a cup of tea? You are welcome to wait here or in Mr. Foyle's office."

Turner stood as well. "A cup of tea would be much appreciated. Thank you, Superintendent. And if you will show me where DCS Foyle's office is located, I will wait there so you can have your own back."

"It's no trouble, sir, but if that's what you'd prefer, his office is just along that hallway, his name is on the door. Milk and sugar in your tea?"

Turner nodded. "Yes, thank you, Superintendent, if you're have some sugar to spare, that is."

Reid smiled. "I'm sure the lads left a teaspoon or two in the bowl this morning. No trouble at all, Commander, I just have to speak to the desk sergeant first."

Back at Steep Lane, Foyle had hurried upstairs to fix his tie, grab his jacket and check on Andrew. The first two tasks were soon completed and he found himself hesitating in the doorway of his son's bedroom. Andrew was still fast asleep despite it being almost noon.

The younger Foyle had slept better last night, with only one nightmare. As in the previous night, he had settled quickly with his father's touch and soft words. Foyle didn't want to wake him, but he didn't like the idea of Andrew waking up to an empty house.

He crossed to the bed and carefully sat by Andrew's hip, running a hand through his dark hair. "Andrew?" He spoke softly as he didn't want to wake his son fully, but just enough so that he could explain his departure. "Andrew?"

"Mmhhm?"

"That's it, son. Wake up a bit for me." He kept his voice low and was rewarded when Andrew opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep.

"Dad?"

"Yes, I'm here. Listen, Hugh called and I need to go into work for a bit. I'm not sure how long I'll be but my business there shouldn't take too long."

"Is everything alright?" Andrew's voice was thick with sleep but there was an edge of concern.

"Yes, everything's fine, I just didn't want you to wake up to an empty house. Now go back to sleep, that's my boy." He continued to stroke Andrew's hair as he spoke and was relieved to see his son's eyes slide closed and his breathing even out. He waited several more minutes until he was sure Andrew had returned to the Land of Nod then slipped quietly from the room and downstairs to wait for the station car.

In 10 minutes, with Constable Thompson at the wheel, Foyle was delivered to the front door of the Hastings Constabulary. Thankfully, Foyle's curious and chatty personal driver, Samantha Stewart, was on a call down at the docks with his sergeant, Paul Milner.

As he pushed through the door into the lobby, he found Hugh Reid pacing like an expectant father by the front desk. "You certainly made good time, Christopher."

"Yes, well, Thompson's driving helped with that. Where is the Wing Commander?"

"He's in your office, said he'd rather wait there," said Reid. "I got him some tea."

They had turned down the hall toward Foyle's office as they spoke and were now just outside the door. The DCS put his hand on the doorknob but paused as Reid placed a hand on his shoulder and lowered his voice. "I'll be in my office, if I can help in anyway…"

Foyle nodded, "Thank you, Hugh." He then took a deep breath and pushed open his door.

Turner had heard the muffled conversation outside and stood as the door opened to reveal DCS Foyle.

"Mr. Foyle, forgive my impertinence but the Superintendent assured me that it was alright to wait for you here."

Foyle waved off the apology as he quickly took off his hat and coat. "He was absolutely right, Commander. I appreciate that you were willing to wait. I hope I have not detained you too long from you duties."

"Not at all, sir."

They sat for a minute in awkward silence before Foyle spoke. "I understand that your visit has something to do with Andrew?"

Turner nodded. "Yes, I regret to inform you that your son has been absent without leave for the past day and a half."

Foyle worked hard to keep his expression neutral as he felt Turner studying him careful.

"According to regulations," Turner continued, "I shouldn't be here, and I most certainly should have reported him to the RAF police."

"So am I correct in assuming that you have not reported him then, Commander?"

Turner nodded again. "Yes, you are correct, Mr. Foyle."

"And why is that?"

Turner sighed and looked down at his cup for a minute before meeting Foyle's gaze. "I am sure you are aware that over the last few weeks the number of RAF and Luftwaffe engagements over the channel has increased almost exponentially." Foyle nodded. "And you probably also know that our current success in repelling the German offensive has come at high cost. Much too high a cost."

Foyle nodded again, the list of RAF dead in yesterday's paper had been one of the longest he had seen, and even without that, the look in his son's eyes over the past two days had told him everything he needed to know.

"During this time your son has proved himself to be a good pilot and an even better leader and he has saved the lives of his squadron mates many times." Turner paused, picking his words carefully. "But given the lack of experienced pilots and the losses that our squadron has suffered it has also meant that Andrew has flown more ops in a short space of time then I believe he should have been required to."

"Well, I can honestly say I would be happiest if he never flew again, but how exactly does this relate to Andrew being AWOL?" Foyle knew, of course, how much this had contributed to his son's desertion but he wanted to know what conclusions Turner had drawn.

Turner sighed. "I think it has everything to do with it, Mr. Foyle. There is a limit to how much we can ask of these young men, and I believe Andrew has reached it."

Foyle nodded, choosing his words with care. "I would be inclined to agree with you, Wing Commander. He certainly wasn't himself when he was home on his most recent pass. But, forgive me for being blunt, what exactly do you intend to do about it?" _I'll be damned if I'm going to turn over my own son to be court martialed. But Turner does seem like a reasonable man._

"Well, I've already told you what the regulations would demand I do," Turner said with a rye smile. "But if I can speak with Andrew, and if, in my opinion, he is suffering from flying stress or combat fatigue, I might be able to get him transferred from ops or at the very least a few weeks leave."

"What would he be doing if he wasn't flying ops," Foyle asked.

"I would recommend him for a training post," the Wing Commander replied. "He has done a stellar job with the younger lads in our squadron, really taken them under his wing, if you'll excuse the pun. I think he could excel as a training instructor and, most importantly, it would take him out of the line for a bit."

Foyle studied Turner carefully for a minute before he spoke. "If I were able to arrange for you to meet Andrew, would he still be charged with desertion?"

"Not by me," said the RAF commander, shaking his head. "Although I would have to meet with him this afternoon. Any longer and the other lads in the squadron will start asking questions and I'll have no choice but to report him."

Foyle nodded. "I see." He chewed on his lip as he studied Turner, pleased to note that the man meet his gaze squarely.

_He certainly seems to be a good man but do I dare trust him with Andrew? I've trusted him with my son for the past few weeks and Andrew was returned to me a broken man. But then again what choice do I have?_

Foyle cleared his throat. "You make a convincing case, Commander, and I appreciate your concern for Andrew." He paused as he tried to decide how much he should say to his son's commanding officer since he didn't embarrass Andrew but he wanted to make sure Turner understood his son's fragile state of mind.

"Andrew came home two nights ago more upset then I have seen him since his mother died," he said finally, his voice harsher than he had intended. Turner flinched.

"You must hate me," said the officer, his voice tinged with guilt.

_He really does care._

"No, Commander, I hate the war," said Foyle. "I hated being part of the last one and hate what this one has done to my son. I do not know if it is 'combat fatigue' as you call it, but I can say that I do not think he is ready to fly any more ops at present. If, for no other reason, than the fact that he is exhausted."

"Lack of sleep is one of the most serious concerns," Turner nodded. "Too many pilots only get four or five hours a sleep a day between ops and briefings. And Andrew often spends the time he should sleep in conversations with the younger men, especially if there has been a bad op. He has taken his role as squadron leader very seriously, Mr. Foyle, and he is damn good one, but it has come at a cost."

Foyle couldn't agree more, despite the pride he felt at the Commander's honest praise of Andrew. Foyle had seen what his actions had cost his son. The guilt that weighed so heavily on the squadron leader's heart mixed with the sorrow in his eyes, spoke of a man who had taken on heavy burdens that were not his to carry.

"Andrew was still asleep when I left the house, but if you were to come by in an hour or two he might be ready to meet with you," said Foyle. "Would that be acceptable?"

Turner nodded. "Yes, Mr. Foyle. I am sorry to have to insist upon seeing him today when he clearly needs his rest, but I truly cannot put it off any longer."

"I understand, Commander, and I truly appreciate your understanding. I know that it is not just Andrew's career at risk here."

The Commander shook his head. "They are all so young, Mr. Foyle, these brave young men that I ask so much. I would take their place if I could. But the very least I can do is look out for them on the ground." Turner stood. "I need to return to base but I will call by your house around 1400 hours?"

Foyle stood as well and walked with Turner to the front desk where he held out his hand. "Thank you again, Commander, I will see you later."

Turner nodded, put on his hat, and shook Foyle's hand. "Good day, sir."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and to LauraRaposa for editing. Please let me know what you think

Chapter 8

Foyle stood for a minute with his hands in his pockets and stared after the Commander before he turned on his heel and headed for Hugh Reid's office. He knocked and waited for the customary "Yes" before pushing the door open.

Reid looked up as he entered, half rose from his seat and asked, "do you need me?"

Foyle shook his head. "No, the Wing Commander is gone. I figured you would want to know the outcome."

Reid nodded and waved him into the chair in front of the desk. Foyle sat heavily and ran a hand over his face, the lack of sleep from the past few days seemed to be catching up with him.

"Well?"

Foyle smiled slightly, patience had never been one of Hugh's strong points.

"He is going to come by later and meet with Andrew," said Foyle.

"And do what exactly? Charge him with desertion?" Reid's voice was full of guarded concern.

"No, he thinks Andrew has a type of battle fatigue and that's why he deserted. If he still believes that after he's met with him he's going to try and get Andrew transferred to a training post or at least get him a few weeks leave."

"Christopher, that's wonderful news," said Reid, but his smile faltered when he saw a frown on his friend's face. "Well, isn't it?"

Foyle looked up. "Oh, yes, in my opinion anyway, much better outcome than I hoped."

"But?"

Foyle rubbed a hand across his forehead. "But I don't think Andrew will see it that way, Hugh. He's going to be bound and determined to return to his squadron, and I suspect quite angry with me for suggesting that he shouldn't." He sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.

Reid frowned as he gave his friend the once-over. The weariness from the other evening had deepened and Foyle looked much older then he had two days ago.

"Christopher, have you slept since Andrew came home?"

Foyle nodded distractedly. "Yes, a bit. Anyway, I should get back home. I need to make sure Andrew is up and ready to speak to the Commander when he arrives." He stood and started to move toward the door.

Reid stood and followed him. "Can I get you anything? I could stop by later, if that would help?"

Foyle shook his head and forced a smile. "No, thank you, Hugh. I appreciate it, but that won't be necessary. Anyway, if Andrew takes the news as I think he will, you'll probably want to give him a wide berth until he's cooled off."

"He wasn't actually who I was planned to see." Reid didn't try and hide the concern in his voice.

Foyle smiled faintly, "I'm fine, Hugh. It will hardly be the first time I've made Andrew cross with me."

"You'll call and let me know what happens?"

Foyle nodded. "Yes, of course, now I really must go. Sorry that I won't be in again today."

"Not at all, Christopher, this is much more important. Should I have Thompson bring the car around?"

"If you don't mind."

Thanks yet again to the constable's driving, Foyle was back in his front hall less then 15 minutes later. He hung up his coat and hat and checked the time on his watch - 12:35 p.m. He had just under an hour and a half to get Andrew up and ready to meet his commanding officer.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks for all the kind reviews! Thanks as always to LauraRaposa for editing this chapter for me. I hope you will enjoy it and let me know what you think.

Chapter 9

Foyle paused for a minute in Andrew's doorway. His son was still fast asleep. Once again, he hated to wake him. But this time, he had no choice. He crossed quickly to the bed and gave Andrew's shoulder a firm shake.

"Andrew? Time to wake up." His voice was clipped and loud, and Andrew responded immediately. He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and ran a hand over his face.

"A scramble? I didn't hear the siren."

Foyle pressed his lips into a thin line. The idea that Andrew had become accustomed to waking up and going directly into combat was a disturbing. "No, Andrew, you're home."

Andrew blinked up at him. "Dad?"

"Yep."

Andrew's eyes darted around his boyhood bedroom as the memories of the last few days came back. He forced a smile, "Right, sorry, I forgot."

"No, that's alright," said Foyle. "But you do need to get up."

"Why?"

"We're going to have company this afternoon," said his father. "I'll tell you about it over lunch." He wanted to get Andrew up before telling him about Turner.

"Lunch?"

Foyle lips curled slightly. _Trust Andrew to focus on that part of the sentence_. "Well, it is nearly 1 p.m., Andrew."

"What? Why didn't you wake me," asked his son.

"There was no reason to until now," said his father. "Anyway, if you're up, I'll go start lunch."

Foyle headed toward the door, pausing in the doorway to look back at his son. "Oh, and Andrew? Make sure you shave, alright?"

"Yessss, Dad."

Nearly 30 minutes later they were both seated at the table when Andrew's curiosity finally won out. "So who is this mysterious guest, Dad? It's not Superintendent Reid is it?"

Foyle wiped his mouth before he replied. "Nup, it's not Hugh. It's actually Wing Commander Turner."

Andrew froze, eyes wide and his cup halfway to his lips. "The WingCo? How? Why?" He had paled significantly.

"Well, he wants to speak with you, Andrew."

"But how does he know where I am? Unless…" His eyes narrowed slightly and he frowned. "You told him didn't you? You turned me in!" His voice was full of hurt and growing anger.

Foyle closed his eyes. He expected this reaction, but accusation still hurt. "Andrew, that's not…"

But his son cut him off and his voice grew louder as color rose in his cheeks. "I really can't believe you sometimes, Dad! I mean _the law_ has to come before everything, doesn't it?"

Foyle held up a hand, "Andrew, stop."

"I did not turn you in," he said. "I told you the first night you were here that I wouldn't turn you in. Do you really think that I would do that to you, son?"

Andrew dropped his head. "No, sorry, Dad, that wasn't fair of me. But then how does Turner know where I am?"

"Well, I was about to tell you."

Andrew nodded sheepishly, "Sorry, Dad, go on."

"Commander Turner came by the station this morning looking for me," Foyle explained. "I wasn't there, of course, but, fortunately, Superintendent Reid was. He was able to convince Turner to wait while he rang me. And that's why I went into the station this morning."

"When you woke me up?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say something?" Andrew's voice was indignant. 

Foyle frowned. "And what good would that have done? I didn't know what Turner wanted, and I didn't see any point in waking you from the sleep you clearly need."

"But at least I would have known!"

"So you could do what, Andrew? Wear a hole in the lounge carpet while you waited for me to get home?"

Andrew shrugged, "So, what did Turner want?"

"He came to inform me that you had gone AWOL."

Andrew looked confused, "Why? That's a job for the RAF police."

Foyle nodded. "Yes, it is. But they don't know you are missing."

"What?" Andrew stared at his father. "But how? According to regulations the WingCo should have reported me missing yesterday morning!"

Foyle nodded again. "Yes, he should have. And he has taken a great risk by not doing so. I'm sure you know as well as I do how RAF Command would react if they found out."

Andrew nodded. "So why did he do it? Not report me I mean?"

Foyle looked steadily at his son. It was clear that Andrew did not realize how much his commanding officer valued him. "He did it, Andrew, because he think you had a good reason to desert and he evidently thinks highly of you."

Andrew looked down at his plate. "I didn't think there was such a thing as a 'good reason' for desertion in the RAF."

Foyle closed his eyes for a moment, silently cursing everything about military discipline that Andrew had been taught. When he spoke, his voice was low and carefully controlled. "Well, Commander Turner thinks there is. He thinks you are suffering from a type of battle fatigue."

"And you agreed with him I'm sure," Andrew snorted.

"Yes, I did. I told him that you were exhausted and upset."

Andrew sighed. "Dad, everyone's tired. There's a bloody war on. I can't exactly tell Jerry to bugger off until I've had some kip! Too many of them are getting through as it is. I mean, look at London, for God's sake."

Foyle sighed. "I understand that, Andrew, but it doesn't mean you aren't exhausted."

"Like I said, Dad, everyone is tired. Everyone in the squadron is working on less sleep then they should. And I won't be babied just because I'm tired!"

"No one is trying to 'baby you,' Andrew. Turner also told me that you get less sleep then the others because of the time you spend with the younger pilots."

"What am I supposed to do, Dad? Leave them to drink away their nightmares so I can get enough sleep? They're young. They don't know how to deal with it yet. And I'm squadron leader. It's my job to make sure all the men are ready to fly." As Andrew spoke his voice had risen but there was steel behind his words. His eyes bored into his father's steel-blue pair almost daring him to disagree.

"I understand that."

"Do you, Dad?" Andrew asked. "Do you really understand what it's like to hold them while they cry, knowing all the while that one of you might be dead before the next op's over?"

The pain in his Andrew's voice cut Foyle to the quick. Pride filled his chest for the man his son had become, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the sorrow of knowing how vested he had become in this damn war.

He looked into his son's eyes. "Yes, Andrew, I believe I do." The pain in Foyle's voice was evident, and Andrew stared at him. "I had to do that many times in France and it's bloody terrible. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am that you've had to experience it."

Andrew balked slightly at the sight of guilt and sadness that he saw reflected back at him in his father's eyes. He took in a deep breath before he replied. "Then you know that I am just doing what has to be done."

Foyle paused unsure of how to proceed. _It appeared Andrew had recovered enough to believe he should be back with his squadron. Any suggestion otherwise would be taken as a swipe against his ability to do his duty._

He rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Be that as it may, it doesn't discount how challenging these last few months have been for you, Andrew."

The young airman sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's my job, Dad. Yes, it's retched but it's war, and like you said it is 'hell.' It's bad enough that I've left the lads on their own for the last few days. I'm ready to go back now. I have to go back."

He spoke steadily, his eyes fixed on his father and Foyle recognized the look in his eyes with a mixture of relief and worry. Andrew's usually laughing eyes were serious, just as they had been when the promising Oxford student told his father that he had joined up.

Foyle felt relieved to know that Andrew was no longer at the end of his rope as he had been when he walked through the front door two nights ago. But it also meant Andrew would likely decline Turner's offer to take him off active service, and given the lack of experienced fighter pilots, the Wing Commander might allow it.

As a veteran of the last war, Foyle knew that the guilt and pain Andrew felt could not be healed by two nights in a warm bed and a few heart-to-heart conversations. _He knew that if Andrew returned to his squadron, the cycle of exhaustion and despair would continue. Until, in a week or a month, he would very likely lose his boy to this god-awful war._

Foyle shivered and took a sip of hot tea in an effort to compose himself. "I can see that you've got your mind made up, Andrew, but you need to listen to Turner's proposal. He is your commanding officer and you'd be behind bars if it wasn't for him."

Andrew nodded. "I know, Dad." The weariness in his voice sharply contradicted his earlier assurances that he was fine.

Foyle felt the familiar ache of worry in his chest and had to press his lips together to keep himself from pointing it out. _As difficult as it was he knew there was no point trying to reason with Andrew. He only hoped that Turner would not be swayed by his son's bravado and stubbornness. _

He checked his watch. "Right, well, you'd better finish up. The Wing Commander will be here in about 40 minutes."

Andrew nodded as he took another bite from his plate. "I'm sorry, Dad, I'm not very hungry," he said as he put his fork down. "I'll put my dish in the kitchen then head up to change. You don't mind doing the washing up without me?"

His father nodded and forced a smile. "Just this once." For the next few minutes Foyle sat there in deep thought as he chewed his lip and listened to the sounds of his son moving about the house.

Finally, Foyle stood and cleared the rest of the table.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I hope you are all enjoying the story.

Chapter 10

With the kitchen and dining room tidied, Foyle returned to the lounge to pace and watch the mantle clock. With both hands jammed in his pockets, he studied the framed photo of Rosalind as he listened to their son's footsteps from above. Another check of the clock showed that Turner would be at the door in five minutes. As a military man, Foyle was certain the Wing Commander would be on time.

He sighed and fiddled with his collar. A small part of him wished that Andrew had been charged with desertion because then at least he wouldn't return to flying ops. _What am I saying? Whatever the outcome of this visit, I'm just going to have to bare it and be brave for Andrew. It's a blessing he's still alive. Too many parents aren't as fortunate._

Foyle was about to start another lap around the lounge when he heard a knock on the door. Andrew must have heard it as well because the pacing from above had stopped. Foyle instinctively smoothed his tie and walked quickly into the hallway. He paused at the foot of the stairs and called Andrew.

His son, dressed in his blue RAF uniform, came down the stairs and Foyle could see the determined set to his shoulders. He was ready to convince his commander he was fit to return to lead his squadron. Foyle's heart ached with worry but he stayed quiet.

Foyle glanced inquiringly toward Andrew and nodded toward the door. Andrew met his eye and nodded back, "I'm ready, Dad."

His father nodded and opened the door. "Commander Turner, please come in," he said as he stepped aside to let the other man pass.

Turner stepped in and removed his cap. "Thank you, Mr. Foyle. I hope this is not too inconvenient."

"No, no, not at all," said Foyle, as he hung Turner's coat on the stand in the hallway and gestured him towards the lounge. "Please, come and sit down. May I get you some tea?"

"That's kind of you. Tea would be much appreciated, if it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all."

They entered the lounge where Andrew stood stiffly at attention. "Wing Commander."

"Flight Lieutenant Foyle, at ease."

Andrew stepped his legs apart but made no move to sit down. Foyle chewed his lip for a moment. He knew military discipline dictated that Andrew could not be seated unless directed by his commanding officer. But as a guest in the Foyle house it wasn't Turner's place to sit without invitation. In short, there was a stalemate.

He looked between the Commander and his son, cleared his throat and said, "You are welcome to sit down, Wing Commander. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll see to our tea." Turner nodded and Foyle turned toward the kitchen to leave his son to speak to his CO in private.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Turner, who remained on his feet, said, "Well, you look much better, Foyle. I trust you are well?"

"Yes, sir, I am, and I'm ready to return to the squadron. It was wrong of me to leave as I did, and it was very good of you not report me. I apologize for the trouble my departure must have caused, and I would appreciate the opportunity to make it up to you. I'm ready to report to duty, sir."

Turner sighed and studied the young man who stood in front of him. He had watched Andrew Foyle over a few short months grow from a cocky college boy to an experienced pilot and brilliant squadron leader. He had been asked to mature under hellish circumstances and had done so in commendable fashion.

Before he replied, the commander considered his words. Mr. Foyle's earlier comment still rang in his ears: "more upset then I've seen him since his mother died." Turner couldn't help to feel responsible for this young man's near breakdown. It's a guilt he has carried since the loss of his first pilot.

The "burden of command," the brass called it, but Turner knew it was a burden he would carry to his grave whether he died in uniform or not. The faces of the young men who had perished so bravely on his orders were never far from his thoughts. And the guilt he felt for his part in their deaths weighed heavily on his heart. He couldn't save those men, but perhaps he could rescue this young man who stood in front of him - at least for the time being.

He studied Andrew carefully. "Frankly, I'm not sure you are, Foyle."

Andrew's jaw tightened. "With respect, sir, I must disagree. I am fit to return to duty regardless of what my father may have told you."

Turner heard the bitterness in his voice and shook his head. He was not about to let this become a battle between father and son, especially when Foyle clearly cared so deeply for his boy.

"Your father had nothing to do with this Flight Lieutenant," said Turner. "He didn't tell me anything that I did not already know. It has been clear to me for several weeks now how worn down you've become."

"No more then anyone else, sir."

"We both know that isn't true, Foyle. I've seen the amount of time you spend with the younger pilots when you could be - and probably should be - resting."

"It's my job as squadron leader, and Rex did the same." Andrew's voice shook slightly when he spoke his friend's name but he pushed on.

Turner nodded. "Yes, but we were not flying two or three operations a day back then." He held up a hand to forestall Andrew's objection. "I'd been considering this for a while, Foyle. The past 48 hours have only served to confirm my decision."

He took a deep breath before he said, "I've put in a request to have you transferred to a training post. You're done with ops, Foyle. You've done enough, more than a enough."

Andrew began to protest but Turner cut him off. "If the war continues to drag on as I fear it might, then I have no doubt that you will be put back in the line again. But for now we are in desperate need of new pilots, and I can think of few people better qualified to bring them along."

"Thank you, sir."

"You've done a hell of a job as squadron leader, Foyle, and I shall miss you."

Andrew didn't have a chance to reply because at that moment his father entered the room with the tea tray. Foyle placed the tray down and looked between his son and the Commander. He could see Andrew's frustration in the tight set of his shoulders and jaw, but Turner's face gave nothing away.

"Milk and sugar, Wing Commander?"

Turner turned toward him, "Yes, sir, thank you." He looked at Andrew, a small smile on his lips. "We had better sit down, Flight Lieutenant, or your father will think that RAF men have no manners."

Andrew nodded and tried to smile but it came out more as a grimace as he accepted his tea from his father and sat stiffly across from his CO.

Foyle poured his own tea and then looked at the Wing Commander. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"

Turner shook his head. "No, thank you, Mr. Foyle. This is excellent."

"In that case, I will leave you to your discussion," Foyle said as he turned to leave the room.

Turner watched him depart and found himself admiring the man's professionalism. _He must be desperate to know if his son will be sent back to active service yet he acts as if this discussion is in my office rather than his sitting room._

The Wing Commander took a sip of tea and studied the young man across from him who was staring moodily into his cup. He cleared his throat and was about to speak when Andrew lifted his head.

"How are the lads, sir? Did the last few ops go all right?" Turner knew he wanted to know if there were casualties, but the question was left unasked.

"Everyone's fine, Foyle. We've only had two ops since you left and they both went well."

Andrew's shoulders relaxed slightly. "I'm very glad to hear that, sir."

Turner nodded and continued, "I spoke to Woods' doctor earlier…" Andrew's head snapped up at the mention of his friend who had nearly died in the cockpit of his Spit. "He's going to be fine. The doctor was able to save his eyesight and he believes Woods' other injuries should heal up fairly quickly."

The squadron leader closed his eyes in relief. He still felt guilty that the younger pilot had been injured in Andrew's own Spit flying an op he believed _he_, not Greville, should have flown.

"That's very good news, sir."

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Andrew worked up the courage to ask the question that had nagged at him ever since his father told him Turner would be paying a call this afternoon.

"Do the others know about me? I mean, about why I am not…"

Turner shook his head. "No, they think you're on leave, and as of right now you are, at least until Monday. A detachment is scheduled to fly up to Debden on Tuesday and you will join them."

"Yes, sir. Who will replace me as squadron leader?"

"I haven't decided yet, Foyle. I hoped you would help me with that."

"Sir?"

"No one knows these pilots better then you do, Foyle. Have a think on it and we can hash it out when you report back to base on Monday. Speaking of base, I should head back," Turner said, as he stood.

"Take care of yourself, Foyle," he said, as he held out his hand.

Andrew stood and shook his CO's hand. "And you, sir. Thank you for not turning me in. I truly do appreciate it. I know I deserved to be reported."

Turner shook his head. "No, you didn't Foyle, and it was my fault that you got to that point at all." He held up his hand as Andrew opened his mouth, "Leave it there, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

Andrew followed his CO into the hallway and politely handed him his coat.

"Thank you, Foyle, and please thank your father for…," Turner broke off as he saw the police detective walk toward them.

"Leaving Wing Commander?" Foyle inquired.

"I am, sir. Thank you for your hospitality."

"A pleasure."

The CO turned to Andrew and asked, "I will see you on Monday, Flight Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir." Andrew said as he came to attention with a salute.

Turner nodded and turned to Foyle "good day."

Foyle held the door open for him and nodded back, "Good day to you, sir."

He waited until the official car pulled away from the curb to shut the door.

"Well," he asked his son.

Andrew had been staring blankly at the front door but roused himself at his father's question.

"I'm on leave until Monday, and then I'm to report to Debden on Tuesday, training post. I'm off ops."

Foyle closed his eyes as relief flooded through him. _Thank God._ He opened his eyes and studied Andrew carefully. "How do you feel about that?"

Andrew ran a hand through his hair. "I don't really know, Dad." He stood for a minute, and then ran a hand across his face. "I think I'm going to take a walk to clear my head a bit. I won't be too long." And with that he grabbed his uniform hat and coat and quickly slipped passed his father and out the door.

Foyle stood in the hall for a moment before he returned to the lounge to clear the tea things. Ten minutes later he sank into his favorite armchair by the fire suddenly exhausted. He had barely slept since Andrew came home. Knowing that Andrew would not return to active service left him almost breathless with relief. He put his head back and closed his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Thanks as always to LauraRaposa for editing this chapter. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed the story especially Utopia who has done so very diligently, it really means a lot.

I clearly own nothing but hope that you enjoy this chapter.

Chapter 11

When Foyle finally opened his eyes it was dusk. He blinked, glanced at his watch and found he had been asleep for almost two hours. He ran a hand over his face and felt his usual teatime stubble. _God, I'm tired._ He sighed, pushed himself up and began drawing the curtains for the blackout. DCS Foyle certainly didn't want a visit from the warden.

He had just started his nightly ritual when he heard a knock at the door. _Who can that be? Can't be the ARP already. There's still some light in the sky._ As he moved into the hallway to answer the door, he noted Andrew's coat and hat were still missing from the rack. _He's still out then. Maybe stopped at the pub._

Foyle made sure he was presentable and then opened the door. He found Hugh Reid walking away from his front stoop. He called out to him.

"Ah, Christopher, I thought you must be out," Reid said as he retraced his steps to No. 31.

"No, no, just doing the blackout. Do come in," said Foyle as he stepped aside to allow his friend to enter.

"Thank you, old chap," said Reid as he removed his hat and gave his friend the once-over. _Hmm. He looks tired and somewhat rumbled._ As he removed his coat and went to hang it on the rack he noticed the absence of Andrew's RAF leather jacket. He swallowed hard. _Had Andrew been ordered to return to active duty?_

He looked back at Foyle and the question died on his lips, as he took in the far away look in his friend's tired eyes. "Right, well, we'd best get a move on if you don't want the warden at your door. I can handle downstairs if you want to tackle the bedrooms."

Foyle roused himself. "Hmm, quite right. Very kind of you to help, Hugh. Thank you."

Reid smiled and pressed a hand to his friend's shoulder as he made his way to the lounge. "Don't mention it, Christopher, although some of your fine scotch would be acceptable recompense."

A smile came to Foyle's lips as he shook his head and made his way up the stairs.

Between the two of them, the blackout was completed in record time. And within minutes the old friends were seated comfortably in the lounge in front of the fire with tumblers of Glenlivet.

Reid watched Foyle rub a hand across his forehead for the third time since they'd sat down and frowned. Christopher Foyle was a reticent man by nature but this evening he had scarcely said two words. Reid felt his gut twist with unease.

As a parent you always worried about your children. But there was normal worry and then there was war. Ever since Andrew had enlisted and been attached to a squadron Reid had become accustomed to the shadow that would cross over Foyle's face when the RAF's latest death toll was reported on the wireless or in the newspaper, and sometimes when the phone on his desk rang.

He had watched his friend age almost overnight when Andrew had been held on false charges and again when he had been injured in a crash. But tonight there seemed to be a new depth to the worry in Foyle's eyes. Hugh frowned.

He took a sip of Speyside's finest and asked, "So did the Wing Commander come by this afternoon?"

Foyle looked up and nodded. "Yes, he did. Sorry. I said I would call you, didn't I?"

"Couldn't matter less," said Hugh as he waved away the apology. He waited for Foyle to elaborate, but there was only silence_._ Reid felt his heart sink.

_Christopher's behaviour would suggest that Andrew had been recalled to active service. But surely the Commander would have given Andrew one last night at home. But if so where was the lad?_ _Best to just ask I suppose_.

"So, eh, how did it go then?"

"Hmm, oh, fine, I guess," said Foyle. "He and Andrew seemed to have a good talk."

"And?"

"And Andrew is to report to Debden on Tuesday to take up a training position."

A broad smile broke out over Reid's face. "Christopher, that's wonderful!"

"Well, _I_ certainly think so," said Foyle, staring into his glass.

"Andrew didn't take the news well then?"

Foyle sighed and once again ran a hand across his face. "He was shocked more than anything I think. But he went for a walk right after the Commander left and I haven't seen him since. So I'm not really sure."

Reid frowned. He had the feeling that wasn't the entire story. Although it was the outcome that Foyle wanted, he didn't seem to be relieved. In fact, he appeared preoccupied. _He's just exhausted._

Hugh cleared his throat, "Have you had your tea yet?"

Foyle looked up at him. "Err no, not yet. I suppose I should see to it. Andrew will be hungry when he turns up. He always is." He forced a smile and moved to stand but Reid held up a hand to stop him.

"Look, Christopher, you look done in and you probably haven't had time to go to the shops since Andrew got home. Why don't I nip around the corner and pick us up something from the pub?"

Foyle frowned and shook his head. "You don't have to do that, Hugh. Besides Elaine will have dinner waiting for you at home. Andrew and I will be fine."

Reid shook his head. "Elaine and the girls have gone up to see her mother. I'm going to join them there at the weekend but we thought it would be good to get the girls away

from Hastings for a bit, especially with the raids increasing again. You'll be saving me from myself, old man. You might be able to cook but anything past eggs and toast is a little out of my league I'm afraid."

He smiled and Foyle smiled back. "Well, if you're sure, Hugh?"

Reid nodded, knocked back the rest of his single malt, and stood as Foyle dug a few bills out of his wallet and handed them to him. "Andrew will eat anything, and you know what I like. I'll put some tea on, and perhaps by the time you get back my son will have returned."

Reid smiled and headed to the hallway to fetch his coat. "I'm sure he'll be along soon and, if not, I'll eat his helping."

Foyle smiled, looked up at his friend and said, "Thank you, Hugh. This is decent of you."

"Not at all, Christopher. I'm saving myself from eggs and toast _again_ not to mention another lonely evening at home. I won't be long," said Reid as he let himself out the door.

Foyle stood listening to the stillness of the house around him and remembered how Rosalind used to hum in the kitchen while she cooked and the cacophony of noise that seemed to arise from whatever room Andrew occupied at the time. He smiled sadly; the house felt so empty these days with Andrew away. He had taken to listening to the wireless in the evenings just to combat the silence. But now, he sighed, Andrew would be home - for a few more days at least - and Foyle let himself bask the in the relief and joy of having his boy home again before heading to the kitchen to make tea.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing and to everyone who has reviewed. Reviews really do make my day. We are over halfway in the story now, hope you are enjoying it.

Chapter 12

Foyle had just finished setting the table in the dining room when he heard Andrew's motorbike roar up to the door. _He must have gone to see Rosalind_. _I wondered what took him so long. _The front door opened, closed and he could hear Andrew taking off his coat in the hallway. It was much quieter then his son's usual entrance, and Foyle couldn't help but worry about his son's state of mind.

"Andrew," Foyle called out from the dining room.

His son strode into the lounge looking somewhat wind blown. "Dad, sorry I was out so long. You have eaten?"

"No, not yet," said Foyle. "Good walk?"

Andrew ran a hand through his unruly hair. "Yes, I figured I should fetch my bike so I went…well you know."

He ducked his head shyly and Foyle nodded. He had been fairly certain that Andrew would end up in the churchyard at Rosalind's grave. Whenever his son felt truly conflicted he would end up there.

Visiting his wife's final resting place had always proved helpful during Andrew's childhood. After an argument Foyle would often walk to Rosalind's grave to clear his head and usually find that Andrew had beaten him there. It had always been neutral ground. It was as if Rosalind had been there to mediate as they had often reached a compromise standing in front of her headstone.

Foyle shook his head to clear the memories and looked up at his son. Andrew looked decidedly worse then he had earlier. He was pale and his eyes looked suspiciously bloodshot. That could, of course, have been a result of his windy ride here although Foyle doubted it. Mostly he just looked tired and so much older then his 22 years. _God Almighty, I hate this damn war._

He cleared his throat. "Right, well, Hugh will be back soon, so you'll probably want to go wash up."

Andrew frowned. "Mr. Reid is coming over for supper?"

"Yes, in a way. He came over for a drink while you were out and kindly offered to go 'round to the pub and pick up something for all of us to eat."

"But what about Mrs. Reid? She's alright, isn't she?" Andrew's confusion was suddenly tinged with a little bit of fear. He knew how quickly things could change with war or no war, as he thought about his own mother. He swallowed and firmly pushed the thought away. "Dad?"

Foyle heard the fear in Andrew's voice and knew that he was thinking of Rosalind. "Mrs. Reid is fine, Andrew. She, Margaret and Grace have gone up to visit Elaine's mother and left Hugh to fend for himself. So he decided to come over and avail himself of my Glenlivet."

Andrew drew a deep breath and nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak for a moment as he fought down the memories of what had been, before the war at least, the worst time in his young life.

He nodded again and forced a shaky smile. "Well, you do have good scotch Dad."

Foyle returned the smile. "Yes, well, between you and Hugh I won't have any scotch for much longer and it's bloody expensive these days. Anyway tea's ready if you want some?"

Andrew smiled but shook his head. "Thanks, but I'd better wash up first. I won't be long."

Foyle watched Andrew retreat up the stairs before he turned his attention back to the dining room table.

Ten minutes later, Foyle had just put the teapot on the table when he heard Hugh's knock at the door. He went to open it and found his friend balancing three brown paper-wrapped packages in one hand.

"Hugh, let me help you with those," said Foyle, as he reached out for the packages with two hands.

"Ah, thank you," said Reid as he shrugged out of his coat and moved down the hallway to hang it on the rack. "I thought I saw Andrew's bike outside?"

Foyle nodded. "Yes, he got in about 10 minutes ago."

"Will he join us then?" Reid was relieved that Andrew was back. He had known that Foyle would not relax until his boy was back under his roof.

Foyle gave Reid a skeptical look. "Hugh, how long have you known Andrew?"

"Umm, since he was 7 years old, I suppose."

"And when has he ever turned down food? He's worse than you are."

Reid smiled somewhat ruefully, "I suppose you have a point there, speaking of which…" He nodded inquiringly toward the dining room.

Foyle nodded back. "Make yourself at home. Everything is on the table. I'm going to wash up and fetch Andrew."

Five minutes later, Foyle felt restored after his quick ablutions. He knocked on his son's door. "Andrew?"

The door opened and he smiled up at his son who had changed out of his RAF uniform into a jumper that looked rather small for him and suspiciously like one of Foyle's own. "Hugh's back with supper."

Andrew nodded and smiled back. "Right-o. Excellent. I'm starving."

Foyle smiled, "You always are, son. Now, come on, we'd best get down there before the tea gets cold.

Reid had poured tea but left the pub dinners wrapped to keep them warm. He had just contemplated another log on the fire when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked up and smiled as the Foyle men entered the room.

"Andrew! Good to see you," said Hugh as he took in how pale and worn down the lad looked. _No wonder Christopher was so worried._

"And you, sir," said Andrew as he forced a smile and reached across to shake Reid's hand. "Right. So, which one of these is mine?" He asked as he studied the packages on the table.

"Take that one there," said Reid as he pointed to parcel. "Your father said you didn't have any particular preference so I got you some fish 'n' chips. I hope that's alright?"

"Rather! Haven't had any in ages! Base food is alright, but it's not the same," said Andrew as he unwrapped the bag and grabbed a hot chip.

Reid and Foyle both smiled at Andrew's honest enthusiasm. And Reid decided that the extra three shillings were definitely worth it, just to see some happiness on the faces of both father and son.

Dinner passed pleasantly as Reid provided some amusing anecdotes from the station, most of which Foyle had not heard given his relative lack of contact with the constables.

The relaxed mood continued after dinner, and once the washing up was done they settled comfortably in the living room each nursing a glass of scotch. They made small talk for a while before Reid checked his watch and decided it was a good time to take his leave. He looked across at Foyle and was pleased to see that a bit of the gloom had been erased from his face.

"Well, I'd best be off, gentlemen," said Reid. "I've got an early shift tomorrow."

He stood and held out a hand to Andrew. "Please take care of yourself, son."

Andrew had risen with his father and shook Reid's hand warmly. "Same to you, sir. Please give my best to Mrs. Reid and the girls."

Reid smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Andrew, I will."

Foyle followed his friend out into the hallway as he retrieved his outerwear.

"I'll let Milner know you won't be in until Monday," Reid said in a hushed tone ready for an objection from Foyle. "No, I insist, Christopher. You haven't had Andrew home in weeks and some rest would do you good. I can handle things at the station."

The compassion in Reid's voice was plainly evident. Foyle inclined his head, touched by his friend's concern. "Hardly the first time I've been tired, Hugh."

"No, but it doesn't mean you don't need the rest," Reid insisted as he shrugged on his overcoat. "I'm serious, Christopher, the work will keep. Take some time. Go to the river."

Foyle ran a hand over his head, and then nodded. "Right. I give up. Thank you. But do me a favor and have Milner ring me in the morning. I hadn't expected to be away so long and I want to hear if some issues were sorted in my absence."

"Of course. Shall I have him ring around 9 a.m?" Reid asked as he reached for his hat.

"Yes, that would be fine," said Foyle as he put both his hands in his pockets. "Can't thank you enough, Hugh."

"Ah, don't be mad, man," laughed Reid. "Thank _you_ for your hospitality…and your scotch."

"I'm serious, Hugh, thank you. You've been a great help to me these past few days and I truly appreciate it."

Reid placed a warm hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't mention it, Christopher. I'm just glad he's alright."

Foyle nodded and said softly, "So am I." The grip on his shoulder tightened briefly.

"Goodnight, Christopher. Get some sleep," Reid said as he turned to walk down the steps.

Foyle locked the door and turned back toward the lounge where he found Andrew fast asleep in his chair by the fire. For a minute everything seemed right with the world. He leaned his back on the door jam, closed his eyes, dropped his head and offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the safe return of his son. He then slipped quietly into the room, picked up his book from the desk and took his own seat by the fire.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! They are very much appreciated! As always the credit for the editing goes to LauraRaposa

Chapter 13

Christopher Foyle opened his eyes the next morning and was greeted with the sight of

his son sleeping peacefully in his childhood bed. He smiled fondly at the sight, it more then made up for the fact he had spent another night in the armchair next to Andrew's bed.

He stretched and felt his back twinge slightly. _Getting too old to spend more than a night or two sleeping in a chair. I was younger was Rosalind was ill._ He looked at Andrew again and emotion welled in his chest for his boy - his brave, heartbroken, brilliant boy who had grown into a man in the heat of battle. Foyle knew Andrew would be scarred by this war like his father had been on the battlefields of France so many years before.

Every time Andrew, as a young boy, asked him about the last war, he replied that it was beyond explanation and he hoped his son would never have to find out first hand. Unfortunately, that was not to be. Andrew bravely flew off to war and returned to his father tired, broken and consumed by guilt. So if Foyle had to sleep in an armchair to ward off his son's nightmares, he would sit there for as long as Andrew needed him.

Foyle rose, stretched and crossed to the bed to look down on his son. As he did, he was reminded of the events of the night before. After Hugh left, both Foyle and Andrew, sated by a warm fire, hearty dinner and fine single malt, dozed in the lounge. The elder Foyle, who had a burning desire for his bed, quietly took the glasses through to the kitchen and completed his nightly rounds.

He shook Andrew to wake him and shepherd him upstairs to his room. As his sleepy son undressed for bed, he rallied and asked, "How do you do it, Dad?"

"Do what, Andrew?"

"Make them stop."

"Make what stop?"

"The nightmares."

Foyle closed his eyes for a few seconds to collect his thoughts. "It will get easier, Andrew. It just takes time. I wish I could do something…"

Andrew shook his head and looked up at him. "But you do, Dad, that's just it. Since I've been home I've slept better then I have in weeks. I've hardly dreamt at all. That's why I asked."

Foyle didn't know how to respond, so he settled himself on the edge of the bed and softly carded his fingers through Andrew's hair. "Don't worry about that now, son. Just sleep."

Andrew quieted, and for a moment Foyle thought he was asleep until he mumbled, "Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"Stay?"

"Yes, of course. I'll stay until you are asleep. Just rest now."

"But what if they come back?"

"What if what comes back, Andrew?"

"The dreams." Andrew shivered. "I see it all the time… Rex's plane crashing…I'm so tired, Dad."

The exhaustion and pain in his son's voice were so thick that it was several minutes before Foyle felt he could trust his voice. "Go to sleep, Andrew. It's fine, son. I'm here. I won't leave."

Andrew relaxed at his words and mumbled his thanks before burrowing further into his blankets with a contented sigh.

Foyle continued to run a hand through Andrew's hair, and murmured softly, "Ssshh…that's it…I'm here…mhm…you're alright…mhm" and other soothing nonsense words that he used to put Andrew to sleep as a child. Within a few minutes, Andrew was fast asleep.

Foyle, also weary from the day, waited a bit by the bed before he returned to his own room to change and collect his eiderdown. He slipped back into his son' room, pulled the armchair close enough so he could rest his feet on the end of the bed and settled in for the night – with one ear open.

Andrew woke up only twice, but thankfully before he could get worked up, Foyle soothed him back to sleep.

DCS Foyle checked the clock by Andrew's bed – 7:30 a.m. He still had an hour and a half before Milner was due to ring to bathe, dress, shave and eat breakfast. He looked back down at his slumbering son and tucked the bedclothes around him before he headed for the lavatory.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I own nothing but do hope you will enjoy the chapter.

Chapter 14

Ten minutes past the appointed time, Sgt. Paul Milner rang his boss. Foyle, who had eaten breakfast and fetched a newspaper from around the corner, began to pace in the hallway a few minutes before 9 a.m. so he could answer the phone on the first ring and not wake Andrew.

"Foyle, here."

"Good morning, sir," said Milner. "Superintendent Reid said you wanted me to ring you this morning?"

"Yes, Milner. I assume he told you that I will be off until Monday?"

"Yes, sir, he did." There was slight pause as Milner decided if he should inquire about the reason for his boss' time off. When the sergeant didn't elaborate, Foyle cleared his throat.

"I wanted to see how the investigation was coming along, Milner. Have there been any other incidents at the hospital?"

For the next 10 minutes Milner brought Foyle up to speed on everything that had happened over the past two days and the leads he pursued in his usual thorough and efficient manner.

Foyle listened carefully. A small part of his brain registered with pleasure how different Milner was now compared to the disheartened, injured soldier he recruited from a hospital bed.

"Well, it sounds like you've got things well in hand as always, Sergeant," said Foyle.

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, what about the housekeeper," asked Foyle. "Have you found anything there? She would have had the best access it would appear."

"I thought the same, sir," Milner replied before he and his boss launched into their thoughts about the best course of action to solve the case.

"Very good, Sergeant. Make sure you take a constable with you for the interviews and let Mr. Reid or myself know how things are progressing."

"Yes, will do, sir," said Milner. He paused again, and then asked with some hesitation, "Sir, I know it's none of my business, but are you alright? Sam is worried sick and Mr. Reid wouldn't say."

Foyle was touched by the concern in his sergeant's voice and had to smile at the tenacity of his inquisitive and imaginative driver.

"Yes, Milner, I'm fine, thank you," said Foyle. "Do tell Sam not to worry. Err, Andrew's got a spot of unexpected leave and Hugh has been kind enough to look after things for me at the station while he's home."

"That's excellent, sir," said Milner, cheered by the news. But then he paused.

In a much more subdued voice, the sergeant asked, "Andrew is alright, isn't he, sir? I mean, it's not injury leave?"

"Yes, he's alright, more or less. Just needed a bit a break from the thick of things you know." Foyle paused for a minute in the hope he hadn't said more than he should. But those fears were quickly assuaged by the compassion and understanding in Milner's voice.

"I certainly understand, sir, and I'm very glad that he's been able to get away from his duties for a few days."

Foyle knew Milner understood. Like Andrew and Foyle, he had seen firsthand the brutality of war, but unlike the Foyles, his war wounds were more physical than emotional. He had left the bottom half of his leg on a battlefield in Trondheim.

The Detective Chief Superintendent would never forget what Milner had told him the first day he visited him in hospital. The despondent corporal painted vivid images of the battle that were sadly reminiscent of Foyle's own wartime experience yet different. Foyle shook his head to clear it.

"Yes, right, make sure you have Sam drive you where you need to go, and tell her that she's welcome to go home to Lyminster at the weekend if you don't need her," said the DCS with humor in his voice. "But I expect her to be 'present and correct' at my door at 8 sharp on Monday morning."

"Yes, sir, I'll tell her," laughed Milner.

"Sounds like you've got things under control, Sergeant, but you are welcome to ring or drop by if something urgent comes up."

"Thank you, sir, but I don't think it will be necessary."

"Right, well, I'll leave you to it then," said Foyle.

"Thank you, sir," said Milner as he rang off. "See you on Monday."

Foyle hung up the phone and stood in the hall with hands in his trouser pockets to hear if his telephone conversation disturbed Andrew. He picked up the sound of light snoring, and took that as a cue to repair to the kitchen for a cuppa.

By late morning, Foyle had read the newspaper cover to cover – including the football scores – then got out his fly-tying tackle. He could do with a few new flies if he and Andrew went down to the river over the next few days.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing and to everyone who reviewed.

As usual I own nothing but my own imagination and look forward to hearing what you think of this latest chapter.

Chapter 15

Andrew awoke slowly and relished the quiet. Over the past few months, the flight lieutenant had become accustomed to being jerked awake by the scramble siren or by the frightened yells of his fellow pilots waging war in their dreams.

But to languish in bed after a good night's sleep surrounded by the familiarity of his childhood bedroom seemed too wonderful to be true. Andrew half-expected to be jolted awake and find himself back in the barracks the scramble siren calling him to battle.

He blinked and pinched himself. When the scene remained unchanged, he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He let out a big yawn as he located his slippers. He figured his father would be at the station, so he threw on his dressing gown and shuffled out into the hall.

When he wandered downstairs five minutes later he was surprised to see his father's trilby and coat on the rack in the hallway. _What's Dad doing home at this hour?_ He opened his mouth to call out but closed it as he stepped into the lounge and caught sight of his father fully engaged in tying flies.

The normalcy of the scene - he in his dressing grown long after he should be and his father in shirt sleeves at work on a new fly – almost fooled Andrew into thinking he was home from Oxford for the weekend. In spite of everything the war had stolen from him, here was a piece of his world that remained untouched.

His father had fished at the same river for as long as he could remember. Andrew remembered that as a little boy, he and his mother would join him on the occasional summer day. He had splashed in the stream under her watchful eye while his father caught a trout for their picnic. Later on, he spent many afternoons ankle deep in the river beside his father as he tried to master the art of fly-fishing. He failed miserably.

Foyle had patiently shown him time and time again the correct way to cast, but there was a certain flick of the wrist that Andrew could not grasp. After many, many tries and much instruction, he took charge of the net and corralled the fish his father expertly caught.

Andrew wondered if he'd be any better at casting now. His reflexes had certainly improved in wartime. Any hesitation by him in his Spit could mean the difference between life and death.

He smiled as he remembered Mum's praise for their catches and the delicious meals that would result from them. When she died it felt like their fishing trips were the only thing in his world that hadn't changed.

The house on Steep Lane felt too large and quiet without her cheerful presence, and both father and son took comfort in the familiarity of the river. There on the banks they could pretend, at least for a few hours, that nothing had changed, for fishing was an activity reserved for the men of the house. It was a time for father and son to talk or often just to enjoy each other's company in relative silence.

Foyle heard Andrew come into the room. Andrew had never mastered the art of moving quietly. He continued to tie a delicate knot even though he risked interruption from Andrew. He finished the knot, looked up and gave his son one of his sideways smiles for his appearance in his dressing gown close to noon.

"Ah, good morning is it, Andrew?"

"Morning still, Dad. Another Iron Blue?"

Foyle knew that was a wild guess from Andrew. "Actually it's a Great Dun, not that you'd know the difference." _What a waste of time it was to teach him one fly from another._

Andrew laughed and shrugged. "Well, they do all rather look the same, Dad. Is there anything in the larder for breakfast? I'm starving."

"Why am I not surprised? Anyway it's closer to lunch than it is to breakfast so why don't you go put on some clothes while I find us something," said Foyle.

"Right-o. Won't be long," said Andrew.

True to his word, his son appeared in the kitchen a short time later. Foyle was surprised – and a little concerned - to see that he had changed into his RAF blues. But he didn't mention it until they were both seated with their tea.

"I thought you were on leave till Monday," asked Foyle.

Andrew nodded, and swallowed his mouthful of tea before he replied, "I am, but I thought I'd go by and check on Greville. I wanted to go before but I couldn't very well drop by a RAF hospital while I was AWOL."

Foyle nodded. "Certainly not. But I'm sure your friend will appreciate the visit."

Andrew shook his head. "The WingCo gave him my op, Dad. It should be me in that hospital. The least I can do is see how he's getting on."

Foyle chewed on his lip. He knew Andrew still felt guilty about what had happened to the younger pilot, but at some point he would have to realize that so many things could have been different if he had flown that op.

Andrew may have succeeded without incident in his late-night reconnaissance mission over France or, God forbid, he could have been shot down over the Channel. It was also possible it could have been his son, rather than young Woods, who nearly burned to death when the Spit crash landed on the Hastings airfield and the cockpit slide refused to open.

Foyle shivered instinctively at the thought. He remembered the icy terror that ran through him when he learned of Andrew's crash into the Channel a year earlier. It started from the minute he received the call at the station and lasted until he set eyes on his son in hospital – whole and mainly unhurt – the fear that filled him overtook his entire body. At the time, he prayed he would never again experience such dread.

He studied Andrew carefully while he took a sip of tea and decided that this was probably not the best time to convince him that what happened to 19-year-old Greville Woods was not his fault.

"Would you mind if I came along?" Foyle asked. "There is a gentleman I met on a case out there. He was in the last war and his home is now the RAF hospital. I'd like to see how he's getting on."

Andrew's shoulders relax slightly and he smiled, "Of course, Dad, if you like."

"Right. Maybe after we can get dinner out? I need to go to the shops at some point, but that can wait until 'til tomorrow."

"Sounds good, Dad. I suppose we'll go by taxi then? I was going to ride out on my bike. Don't suppose you want to ride along," Andrew said, a cheeky smile playing at his lips.

"You're absobloodylutely right I don't," said his father. "I'll ring for a taxi once we're finished. That should give you plenty of time to do the washing up while I change."

Andrew opened his mouth to put up a token argument but was instantly quelled by the don't-even-think-of-it look his father shot back at him. "Yes, Dad," he said and looked down at his plate. _It's funny. Dad can still make me feel like I'm a naughty schoolboy instead of an experienced fighter pilot…_

Foyle smirked before he took another bite off his plate. Father and son finished their meal in comfortable silence and then parted – Foyle called the taxi before going upstairs to change while Andrew, at the kitchen sink, tied an apron around his waist to protect his uniform trousers.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I own nothing but my imagination.

Chapter 16

The ride to the hospital passed in silence. Andrew stared out the window and fidgeted with his cap while his father watched him surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. It was clear that Andrew was nervous about his visiting his injured friend Greville Woods, but Foyle could not summon the words to ease his son's anxiety. So he said nothing. He hoped his presence alone would bring Andrew some comfort and support.

As he stared out at the countryside from the back seat of the taxi, Foyle remembered some years ago his son had confided that "scary things didn't seem as scary" when his father was around. At the time, Andrew was 6 years old and frightened about getting his inoculations at the doctor's office. But Foyle hoped that 16 years later his son would still feel more at ease with his father nearby. It was, after all, the real reason why he offered to join him today.

Although Foyle wouldn't be opposed to a chat with Sir Michael Waterford, whose homestead Digby Manor was now the RAF burn hospital, he didn't want Andrew to face the wards alone. It had been hard enough for Foyle to keep his expression neutral when he and Milner had passed by the beds earlier that week. The sight of so many injured young pilots, some of them severely disfigured, disturbed both police detectives, but especially Foyle. Who was acutely aware that his son could join their ranks at anytime.

Foyle didn't know these men but Andrew did – if not personally than through their shared experiences. It was the same way Foyle felt toward Sir Michael, a fellow veteran of the Great War, although they did not serve together. The men were bound by memories of their service but were reluctant to share their stories. It was too painful and far too long ago.

The worst tales of war were always left untold. Sometimes a veteran speaking to his comrades in arms would offer up that he had "seen action at Ypres" or "spent most of the war in Belgium." But there was no need to elaborate. Old soldiers didn't need to re-live the horror of the battlefield with each other - or anyone else. Usually a tone of voice or single glance was enough to shut down the curiosity of those at home.

Foyle knew that Andrew hadn't told him the true extent of his sorties and dogfights except when his childhood friend Rex Talbot died. He would sometimes offer up oblique comments such as "We're flying a lot right now" or "The sortie went well the other night. Good for the new chaps to get a bit of experience."

It was the young men in his squadron - and those pilots who filled the beds at the burn hospital - who knew the details that Andrew didn't say aloud. They talked amongst themselves. No one else would understand.

Foyle worried that if Andrew saw these badly injured young men - especially with his guilt over Greville Woods – any progress they had made over the last few days would be lost and they would be back to the night his shattered son walked through the front door on Steep Lane.

However, Foyle knew that to try to dissuade Andrew from this visit would be pointless. After all, the squadron leader was his father's son – duty-bound. It made Foyle proud but it didn't stop him from trying to protect his son. He only hoped his presence would make the visit "not as scary."

Foyle was torn from his reverie when he felt the taxi come to a stop on the gravel drive. He glanced up in time to see Andrew close his eyes and take a deep breath before he pushed the door open and stepped outside the car.

When Foyle turned back to look at Andrew after he paid the driver, he found him with his shoulders squared, head up, brown eyes alight with good cheer. _What just happened here? Is this confident pilot the same war-weary man, bowed by guilt and sorrow that had came home 3 nights ago?_

Foyle blinked slowly trying to think of an explanation for the immediate transformation when Wing Commander Turner's words came back to him: "He's taken his role as squadron leader very seriously." The last few days had made it abundantly clear to Foyle just how seriously Andrew had taken that role. But the lengths his son was willing to go still left him slightly breathless.

It was clear Andrew believed it was his job to appear optimistic and strong, especially during this hospital visit. Foyle felt his heart swell with pride to know Andrew had grown up to be a good man just as he and Rosalind hoped. The proud father dropped his head and closed his eyes for a tick. When Foyle looked up, Andrew was smiling at him with a cheeky grin that reminded Foyle of his 6-year-old boy – without the short pants.

"Shall we, Dad," Andrew asked, as he nodded toward the hospital entrance. Foyle nodded, shot him sideways smile and together they walked to the door.

With no one to greet them, Foyle directed his son through the great hallway to what he remembered was the largest ward. They were nearly there when a young nurse stopped them and asked, "May I help you, gentlemen?"

Foyle, who usually takes charge of these situations, opened his mouth to reply – but his son beat him to it. Andrew flashed the nurse his brilliant smile and replied, "I hope so. I'm Flight Lieutenant Foyle and this is my father, DCS Foyle." The older man smiled and tipped his trilby politely.

"We hoped you might be able to tell us where we could find Flight Lieutenant Woods," Andrew continued as he smiled again. Foyle noticed the nurse's face flush a bit and he had to fight off the urge to roll his eyes.

"Of course, Flight Lieutenant, if you'll follow me I can take you there, now." She and Andrew fell into step and chatted pleasantly while Foyle brought up the rear. He was pleased that Andrew seemed like his old self again but he wondered how much of it was an act.

A few beds in from the door, Andrew heard someone call out his name.

The Foyles and the nurse stopped at the foot of a bed where a young man lay, heavy bandages covering the whole right side of his body. Andrew stared at the injured pilot for a few seconds before recognition flashed in his eyes. "Will? Will Middlebrook?"

The patient nodded and Andrew approached the side of the bed smiling, hand outstretched. He paused when he realized that Middlebrook's right hand and arm were swathed in bandages and held in place by a sling. Drawing back his right hand he instead offered up his left and said, "Good to see you, Will. Last I'd heard you'd been posted up north."

"I was, well, until I end up on the wrong end of a dog fight," said the injured pilot. "Been grounded for a few weeks now…bloody Jerrys. Hope you've been giving them hell."

"Doing my best," Andrew nodded. "Forgive me, Will, this is my father Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle. Dad, this is Flight Lieutenant Will Middlebrook. We trained together in Scotland."

Foyle approached the bed, his left hand extended. "Pleased to meet you, Flight Lieutenant."

"And you, sir."

"Will is the best chess player in the service, Dad. I don't think I won a single game in all those weeks of training," said Andrew.

Will laughed. "You always were one to exaggerate Foyle. I'm hardly the best in the RAF."

That bit of humility drew a guffaw from another bandaged up pilot in the next bed. The patient leaned over to Andrew and said, "Don't listen to him, man. He's beaten everyone in this place at least twice and made it look easy."

"I can believe it," laughed Andrew who turned to his father and said, "Better watch out, Dad, or you'll be next!"

Will, who had been studying his blankets with a rather sheepish expression, looked up with interest, "Do you play, sir?"

Foyle nodded. "I do, although I'm a little rusty at the moment with Andrew being away. No one to play against."

"Well, if you ever feel like a game you should drop by," said Middlebrook. "Gets rather dull around here. Most of the lads aren't up to playing much, and the nurses don't even know the rules."

Foyle smiled. "Well, thank you. I just may have to take you up on that…"

He was about to continue when Andrew broke in: "I say, why not have a game now? You have the time don't you, Dad?"

"I absolutely do," nodded Foyle as he noticed Will's eyes brighten at the anticipation of a competent challenger. _Poor lad, he's clearly bored out of his mind, and if he's anything like Andrew, he must hate being cooped up._

"What do you say, Will," asked Andrew. "Then I will finally know who's better. I know I'm rubbish, but if you can beat Dad than I won't feel so bad about it."

Will laughed and nodded with enthusiasm. "Love to. If you're sure you have the time Mr. Foyle? I wouldn't want to keep you."

"Definitely have time, Flight Lieutenant," said Foyle. "Besides if you're as good as they say, it won't take long anyway. Now, is there a board about?"

The nurse helped the patient sit up, and together she and Andrew fetched a card table and a chair while Foyle gathered the pieces and the board. By the time Andrew took his leave to go see Greville Woods, both chess players were deep in concentration over their next move.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I own nothing but my imagination.

Chapter 17

When Andrew and the nurse finally reached Greville's bed he was asleep. The nurse made a move to wake him, but stopped when Andrew shook his head. She smiled knowingly and quietly moved off down the ward.

Andrew stood silently studying the bandaged man he had come to think of as a younger brother. He had always wanted siblings growing up; it had never occurred to him that he would get a handful when he was in his 20s. Time after time, Andrew fetched cups of sugary tea for those shaken by their first combat op, and he was the one who held them when they wept for those who died whether friend or foe.

It was a sobering moment for a RAF pilot when he realized the Jerry he just sent to his death in a fire-spewing spiral into the Channel was just a man like himself. Only he would not return to his family or into the arms of his best girl.

Dad once told him "you get through it" because there wasn't any other way. You had to kill a faceless German before he murdered your mates or dropped a bomb on your parents' house while they slept. This rationalization didn't keep the nightmares at bay or assuage guilt, but Andrew had learned to push these thoughts aside during an op so he could "get through it."

He ran his hand through his hair and looked down at Woods relieved to see his friend's eyes were no longer bandaged. He did, however, look like he had nasty sunburn and his hands were wrapped in bandages. Overall, he appeared much better than Andrew feared.

"Getting your beauty rest, Woods?"

The younger mans eye's flew open and he blinked up at Andrew with a massive smile on his face. "Andrew!"

"Hello, Greville," grinned Andrew as Woods struggled to sit up. "Steady on, old chap. Are you allowed to sit up?"

Woods nodded. "Yes, I have been for days now."

The younger man was a terrible liar so Andrew took him at his word as he helped his friend ease into a sitting position and lean back against his pillows. "Right. There you go."

Andrew smiled down at the pilot, who beamed back it him. "It's jolly good to see you, Andrew, but how did you get away from base? Aren't we still on standby?"

The squadron leader shook his head. "I've got a spot of leave so I thought I'd say hello. How have you been?"

Woods shrugged. "I've been alright. The first few days were the hardest, but Anne comes everyday now." He paused, and then with a huge grin he asked, "Did you hear we're engaged?"

"I did NOT," joked Andrew as he pretended to be taken aback. "That's great, Greville. Congratulations! She's a wonderful girl."

"She really is, isn't she," said the besotted pilot.

"So when's the happy occasion?" asked Andrew.

"Not sure really. Anne wants to wait until after the war, and I can see that, you know, just in case."

Andrew nodded. "Just in case" was code for "in case you die." And as war still raged on, it was a very real danger for all of them.

"How are the other chaps?" Woods asked.

"They're alright the last time I saw them," said Andrew as he fiddled with his cap. "Like I said, I'm on leave right now."

He paused and made eye contact with his friend before he continued. "Look, Greville, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I should have made sure that moron Drake had fixed the bloody fly because if I had this wouldn't have happened." He had managed to keep eye contact while he apologized but now he just stared at his boots.

"Andrew, you cannot possibly blame yourself for this," said Woods with disbelief on his face.

His friend and squadron leader nodded despondently. "It was my Spit, Greville, and I shouldn't have let you fly it until I knew it was safe."

"Andrew, that was my responsibility and Drake's," Greville said. "It was my op and his job. Besides if I'd flown the op properly I wouldn't have been shot down at all."

The bitterness in Woods' voice made Andrew look up sharply, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. "What happened?"

It was as if the question had broken through a dam and the whole story flooded out.

"Everything went well on the first pass, but I must have come in too low on the second one and I got hit," said the injured pilot. "I didn't think it was too bad, but when I turned for home and saw the fire licking at the wing…" He paused and looked up at Andrew. "I thought I was a goner. I really did. All I kept thinking about was Anne…"

He trailed off, eyes far away.

Andrew softly squeezed his friend's left shoulder but stayed quiet. After a minute, Woods looked up again and forced a smile. "You probably know the rest by now. I managed to make it back to the field and land but I couldn't get out. Thought I was dead."

He shivered at the memory of beating his fists helplessly against the canopy as the flames enveloped him. The hand on his shoulder tightened and he swallowed hard. "If it weren't for the field attendants I would be dead. They risked their lives for me, Andrew. They ran over and pulled me out right before the fuel tanks went up." He shivered again and then frowned. "I don't think I even thanked them! Will you do that for me when you see them next, Andrew? Tell them how very grateful I am?"

"Of course, I will," said Andrew. "I'll be sure to do that on Monday."

Woods leaned back against his pillows suddenly tired but relieved to have told one of his squadron mates what happened on that fateful night. He hadn't really remembered much the first few days he was in hospital, and then when his memory returned, there had been no one to tell.

There had been no debrief by the Wing Commander because he was hurt, and he wouldn't dream of telling Anne. He looked up at the man who had done so much for him since he'd joined the squadron and smiled. "Thanks, Andrew."

Andrew frowned. "For what? Letting you fly an op that landed you in hospital?"

"No, for coming, for listening. I haven't told anyone until now."

Andrew nodded understandingly and then said, "I don't see how any of what happened was your fault, sounds to me like you did a very good job."

"Should have known to stay higher on that second pass."

"At the time did you want to go lower or did they catch you before you had time to correct?"

Woods frowned. "I remember thinking that I'd got everything on the first pass but I'd better take a second just in case. The WingCo was adamant that they needed images as accurate as possible, so I went a bit lower to try to get more detail."

Andrew nodded. "So you were just fulfilling the mission objectives then. I would have done the same."

Woods looked up at him. "Really? You would have made the second pass?"

Andrew nodded and spoke firmly. "Yes, I bloody would have, Woods. You did a hell of a job and you should be proud of yourself."

Woods closed his eyes and leaned his head back on his pillows. He felt like a massive weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and smiled up at his squadron leader. "Thank you, Andrew. You have no idea how much that means to me. You're a good sort."

Andrew smiled back. "You're a good sort yourself, Greville. Now should I push off and let you rest a bit? I imagine Anne will be here soon. Wouldn't want you to miss a minute with your fiancée."

Woods smiled at the term and nodded. "Yes, I suppose. Matron's very strict about us resting. Usually she insists that I have a nap if I want to go for a walk with Anne. The WingCo has nothing on Matron."

Andrew laughed. "I'd better be off before I'm court martialed for disturbing the peace then. Take care of yourself, Woods, and give my best to the beautiful Anne."

"Will do. Tell the boys I said 'hello' when you see them, and give Jerry hell for me," he said.

"I will. I'll see them before I head up to Debden."

"Debden," asked Greville. "What are you doing there?"

"Been reposted, actually, a training position," said Andrew. "Must be desperate if they want me to teach."

Woods laughed and shook his head. "Ha! A bunch of pilots trained by you, Foyle? Jerry won't know what hit him."

Andrew laughed as he helped the younger man lie back down. "Well, I'd better go and collect my father. Take care of yourself, Woods."

Woods nodded and held out his left hand. "Good luck, Andrew."

Andrew smiled and shook it. "Same to you, Greville," He watched the younger man's eyes drift close and his breathing level out before te turned and began to retrace his steps to Middlebrook's ward.

Andrew was glad he had come, but he suddenly felt much older than his 22 years. He paused and looked around him as a lump formed in his throat. Most of the patients appeared to be his age or younger. He swallowed hard, flashed a smile to the chap in the bed closest to him and walked on to find his father.

Andrew found his father still sitting by Will's bed. The chessboard and card table were tidied to one side and Foyle appeared to be listening to the young pilot tell a story.

"Op was going fine, and then all of a sudden a swarm of them dropped down from the clouds behind us…"

Andrew paused and decided to go no further. Neither man had seen him and he didn't want to interrupt. It sounded like Will also had a story he needed to share. He swallowed hard as he remembered that Middlebrook had lost his own father a few months before the war started. _Heart attack, I think he said._ He racked his brains trying to remember if he'd had any other family. _His mother was wasn't happy when he enlisted. She wanted him to stay home and run the family's shop. Also remember something about a married sister in Wales…_

Andrew wondered if any of them had come to visit him since he'd been in hospital. He recalled that Will didn't receive much mail. _Maybe a couple of letters from a girl back home, but he didn't mention if his family wrote to him._

He watched Foyle sit silently as Will retold his story. His father was a wonderful listener_. Probably serves him well in his police work._ His heart swelled with sympathy for Will as well as gratitude for his father. He was reminded yet again how lucky he was to have him in his life.

It sounded as if there was still a good bit left to Will's story so he quietly backtracked and glanced up the ward, trying to think of a way to keep occupied for a bit.

He spotted a young man with a bandage over one eye squinting at a book that Andrew suspected he wasn't supposed to read in his condition. _Poor bugger. I'd go crazy if I was stuck in bed all day. _He walked swiftly down the ward and stopped at the foot of the reading man's bed.

The injured pilot put down the book as Andrew smiled and hurried to introduce himself.

"Flight Lieutenant Andrew Foyle at your service," he said. "I dropped in to see a mate but he's gone and fallen asleep on me, and I've got a bit until my ride comes. So would you like me to read to you? I'm told I'm decent at it and I hate standing around doing nothing." He smiled again and waited nervously for the other man to respond.

"Foyle, you said?"

"Yes?"

"You're the squadron leader under Turner aren't you?"

"Yes, that's right. I'm sorry, and you are?"

"Flight Lieutenant Harding, 209th squadron. You sent us a couple of lads a few weeks ago when we were short."

Andrew nodded. He remembered he and the WingCo had a long discussion about whom they should send. "Ah, yes, that's right. Hope they behaved themselves."

"Aye, they did that. Raised bloody hell for the Jerrys and kept on about how they'd have to tell Flight Lieutenant Foyle how many kills they'd got."

Andrew laughed. "We have a bit of a competition going as I suspect most squadrons do. As leader it's my job to keep the tally up to date and heaven help me if I forget. They're after me like a gaggle of squawking geese."

The two men laughed as Harding gestured to the chair beside his bed.

"You're welcome to sit and pass the time before your ride comes if you like. Wouldn't recommend the book though. It's bloody dull but better than nothing I suppose."

Andrew looked around quickly and spied a pile of books on the other side of the room. He jumped up and walked over to the table hoping he'd find something he recognized that wasn't too dreary. He grinned when he found a book his father had given him and returned to the chair at Harding's bedside.

"How about this one instead? My father gave it to me last Christmas and I quite enjoyed it. I could read you the first chapter if you'd like?"

Harding studied the back of the book intently and then shrugged. "Can't be worse than Dickens. But are you sure you've got the time? Most people have better things to do than read to cripples."

His voice hardened on the last sentence and Andrew winced at the bitterness and self-deprecation but forced himself to smile. "Actually, I'd like to read it again. Haven't had much time for reading these days."

Harding looked at him critically for a minute, nodded and leaned back against his pillows to listen. Andrew shifted slightly in his chair, cleared his throat and began to read quietly.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I own nothing but my imagination.

Getting close to the end now. Only 2 more chapters to come. I hope you are enjoying the story.

Chapter 18

DCS Foyle was engaged in doing one of the things he did best: listening. He hadn't expected Will Middlebrook to open up as he had, but it was clear the injured pilot desperately needed to tell someone what had happened.

It was a déjà vu moment for Foyle. Some months ago in a different hospital, he had listened to another injured soldier – his now-sergeant, Paul Milner - describe the battle at Trondheim where he lost the bottom half of his leg.

Like Milner, Middlebrook stared blindly ahead and recalled every minute of the horror like it had happened yesterday. The pilot's voice wavered at points, and a few times he fell silent for several minutes. But Foyle stayed silent. He knew that if Middlebrook got through his story once – the first time was the hardest - he could finally start to put the incident behind him.

Foyle was concerned that after all these weeks this was the first time Will had told anyone about the events that led him to this hospital bed. _Don't they encourage the wounded to speak to someone around here?_ _Isn't that part of the healing process?_ _Where are the boys parents?_

As Middlebrook continued to be lost in his thoughts, Foyle remembered the words spoken in his office earlier in the week by Wing Commander Turner: "We ask so much of them." _That's a bloody understatement._ But these young men - with the fate of their country and their own lives in the balance – bravely just do what needs to be done.

"And then I woke up in hospital, Mr. Foyle," said Will. "I don't really remember much about my first week there. The doctor said it was pretty touch and go for a while but once I recovered a bit they sent me here to the burn hospital."

Middlebrook paused and forced a smile. "It's a pretty good crowd here, but I do miss my squadron."

Foyle nodded and smiled understandingly, "No doubt. I'm sure Andrew would, too."

Will fiddled with a loose thread on his blanket. "They won't tell me if I'll be able to fly again, sir. Every time I ask they just say, 'We'll see.'" He looked up at Foyle. "That means no, doesn't it?"

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds and replied, "I don't know about that, but it sounds like you've made good progress."

"I just wish they'd tell me," said Will, anger rising in his voice. "I can handle the truth. I'm not a child!"

Foyle knew he would have to tread carefully to maintain the younger man's trust.

"Truthfully, Flight Lieutenant, I believe the doctors would tell you if they knew. But these types of injuries take time to heal. It wouldn't do to tell you one thing and then be wrong, would it?"

"No, sir," Will said seeming to deflate against his pillows. The anger had stolen the last of his energy and his voice was tired and tinged with pain.

Foyle frowned in concern, and caught the eye of a nurse at the end of the ward, who nodded and began to make her way towards them. As he looked back at the young man in front of him, Foyle cleared his throat. "Well, it looks like you could do with a bit of a rest." Middlebrook began to protest but Foyle held up a hand. "What do you say to another game of chess next week?"

"Really, sir? You'd have the time?"

Foyle smiled at the eagerness in Will's voice. "Certainly have the time. So, if you're up to it, I'd like a chance to even things out."

Will smiled back. "I'd like that very much. Thank you, sir."

By this time, the nurse reached the patient's bedside and Foyle rose. "Right. Now I had better go see what sort of trouble my son's gotten into while I've been here."

"Tell him goodbye for me won't you, sir? It was jolly good to see him again."

Foyle nodded. "I will. Until next week…" He retrieved his trilby from the end of the bed, smiled at Will and the nurse and stepped away.

He watched as the nurse fussed around the younger man. She eased him down then began to take his temperature and pulse. She caught Foyle's worried gaze and smiled reassuringly. She waited another minute until Will had settled, and moved back down the ward.

As she passed Foyle, she said, "Don't fret, sir. He's fine. Just needs a bit of a rest. That chat with you probably did him more good than any medicine we've got here. He's been fussing for a while but wouldn't tell us why. The pilots don't like to seem weak, you know."

Foyle nodded. _Damn military discipline for teaching these young men to think that acknowledging the trauma they've been through was nothing short of cowardice. _He shook his head and shot one more look at Will. He was relieved to see that the boy appeared to be asleep, then walked off in search of Andrew.

He heard Andrew's voice before he saw him, and came to a stop as he rounded the corner. Foyle found him reading aloud to a patient with a bandage over one eye.

The detective assumed that the man in the bed must be Greville Woods but he didn't want to interrupt. _Maybe now would be a good time to see if Sir Michael was about._ He had just turned to leave when he heard Andrew stop reading. Foyle looked back to find that his son had risen and looked like he was saying goodbye, so he waited.

A moment later, Andrew strode to join him. "Well, hello, Dad."

"So did Woods like whatever you were reading?"

Andrew looked confused for a second. "No, no, that wasn't Greville," he said with a shake of his head. "It was Lieutenant Harding but he seemed to."

Foyle's brow wrinkled in concern. _Just how many of Andrew's friends were in this bloody hospital?_

"Another friend from training, is he?"

"No, just met him actually," said Andrew. "Greville was knackered so we didn't talk long. And when I came back, you and Will were talking, so I didn't want to interrupt. I saw Harding squinting at a book and thought I might give him a hand. Turns out he's been flying with the 209th. A couple of our lads went up to give them a hand a few weeks ago."

Foyle nodded silently as they walked toward the door.

It wasn't until they had called for a taxi and were waiting out on the gravel drive in the afternoon sunshine that Andrew spoke again. "Is Will alright Dad? He seemed to be earlier, wanting to play chess and all." Andrew trailed off and thrust his hands into his pockets, to keep from pacing.

Foyle studied his son with concern_. It was clear that this visit had been hard on Andrew just as Foyle had feared it would be._

"Yes, more or less," he replied. "He's a very good chess player to be sure. Have to see if I can do better next week."

Andrew glanced up with a small grin on his face. "So, I take it, he beat you then?"

Foyle nodded and flashed his sideways smile. "Yup."

Andrew's cheeky reply was lost by the arrival of the taxi, and the discussion quickly shifted to where they should go for dinner.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I own nothing but my imagination.

Chapter 19

After a brief account of his visit with Greville Woods - with the main focus on the younger man's engagement to Anne - and plans made to fish at the river the next morning, Andrew fell silent. Focusing on his plate with much more dedication than the wartime meal required.

Foyle wasn't surprised. When Andrew voluntarily remained silent, it usually meant he was in a funk about something. When he was still at school, silence at the dinner table meant he had done poorly on a test or on the athletic field or he had landed in hot water with a teacher. Andrew would eventually confess, but in his own time.

Foyle had no doubt that the events of the afternoon, coupled with those of the past few days, had given his son plenty to mull over. And as much as he wanted to help, he knew it was best to give him time. Patience was one virtue that the career policeman had worked hard to cultivate. It usually paid off in the interview room as well as at the dinner table with a silent Andrew.

The mask that the young pilot had carefully constructed and worn throughout their time at the hospital slowly dropped away to reveal a man exhausted by war as well as the yoke of leadership he shouldered.

Foyle felt his jaw twitch. He wished he could say or do more to alleviate his boy's pain. But he knew only time would heal Andrew's wounds.

When he saw both their plates were empty, Foyle signaled the waiter. After he caught the man's eye to ask for the check, he inquired if his son would prefer to walk home or take a taxi.

Andrew visibly pulled himself from his thoughts at his father's question. "Wouldn't mind the walk if that's alright with you, Dad. It's not too far is it?"

Foyle shook his head. "Probably a quarter hour at most."

Andrew nodded as he swallowed the last swig of his pint. "Right-o. Thanks for dinner, Dad. Jolly decent of you."

Foyle smiled. "Well, there's bugger all in the larder, so it was either this or we starve. But I am glad you enjoyed it."

_Not surprised he opted to walk home. Hopefully it will help clear his head and maybe let him sleep. God knows I can do with more than three hours…_

Father and son walked home in comfortable silence, and after doing the blackout, they settled by the fire for their customary nightcap. It quickly became apparent to Foyle that Andrew was still not ready to talk about what had transpired earlier at the hospital. They didn't terry too long over their drinks given that they planned an early start to the river.

Foyle the younger headed upstairs first. His father followed a short time later and was pleased to find Andrew fast asleep when he checked in on him. He pulled up the blankets and dropped a soft kiss on his son's head before crossing to his own room.

The weary DCS went through his nighttime ablutions in a daze then dropped into bed and borrowed down in the blankets. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But his slumber was short-lived.

"HELP! GET ME OUT! SOMEONE HELP!" came a cry that tore though the silent house. The terror in his son's voice catapulted Foyle out of bed and into Andrew's room within seconds.

The young pilot was thrashing back and forth, his long legs tangled in his blankets. His hands clawing at the air as he cried, "PLEASE, GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

Foyle leaned down, caught his son's shoulders and shook them firmly as he said, "Andrew! Wake up! Andrew!" 

His son's eyes flew open and he pushed himself up on his elbows to scan the room.

Foyle sat down on the bed and asked again, "Andrew?"

_What's Dad doing here?_

Andrew stared into his father's eyes and breathing heavily as he oriented himself.

"Dad," he croaked.

"Yes, son, I'm here," said Foyle as he reached out to grasp Andrew's bicep. "It was only a dream...just a bad dream."

It took all of one second for Andrew to sit up, collapse into his father's arms and begin to sob into his father's flannel-clad shoulder. "Oh, Dad, I…I…"

Foyle rubbed his back soothingly. "Shh, son, it was just a dream. You're safe…I'm here…"

Finally, the tears eased and Foyle felt Andrew sag against him. "Care to tell me what happened?"

As he expected, Andrew shook his head.

Foyle carded his fingers through Andrew's hair. "Come on, son, you know it will help. It always does."

Andrew shivered but remained silent as he buried his face a little more firmly in Foyle's shoulder. Foyle waited, fingers still running through Andrew's sweaty hair.

"I couldn't get out of my Spit, Dad."

Andrew shivered then continued. "The fly was stuck. I…I…couldn't get the canopy open and the flames kept getting closer. I could feel them licking at my feet and I couldn't get out. I kept shouting but no one heard me. I was stuck and thought I was going to die."

Foyle felt Andrew's breathing hitch and fresh tears dampened his shoulder.

"It's alright, Andrew," soothed Foyle. "It was just a dream."

"But it wasn't," said his son as he lifted his tear-stained face to look at his father. "Greville told me that's what happened to him. It should have been_ me_, Dad. _I _should have been burned, not him. It was _my _Spit." He shuddered again and trailed off.

Foyle sighed. "Andrew, it isn't that simple. You can't assume that the same thing would have happened to you if you flew the op. A number of things could have changed, son. You might have avoided the guns or, God forbid, you might have been shot down over France or the Channel. I understand that you feel guilty that Greville got hurt flying your plane, but you had no way of knowing what would happen."

Andrew shook his head and looked into his father's steel-blue eyes. "See, that's where you're wrong, Dad. I knew the fly was sticking. After the last op I flew I couldn't get out, and one of the ground attendants had to open my canopy. That's why I rowed with Drake.

"I reported the problem the week before and he'd done nothing. That's why I blamed him for what happened to Greville. It could have been _me_, Dad. That was my op. At the last minute the WingCo assigned it to Greville."

He shivered again and ran a shaky hand over his tears-soaked face.

Foyle also felt a shudder run through him. _I know every sortie he flies is a flirt with death. The thought of Andrew being killed in a hail of German bullets is one thing. But being burned alive because of the nonchalance and carelessness of the RAF mechanics? It's unfathomable and unforgiveable._

It was several minutes before Foyle had composed himself enough to speak. "That doesn't make it your fault, Andrew. It was Drake's job. You reported that the work needed to be done and it was his duty to fix it. The fact that he neglected to do so is atrocious, but it has nothing to do with you. You did your job. He didn't do his."

Andrew, who had made a study of his blankets while he father spoke, looked up and said, "it still feels like it's my fault."

Foyle nodded. "I know, son, but you have to get past it. I promise you it wasn't your fault. Moreover, I suspect Greville would tell you the same."

"He did, Dad," said Andrew. "I tried to apologize but he said it was Drake's responsibility as well as his own because it was his op."

"And he's absolutely right."

Andrew nodded but stayed silent as he took stock of his childhood bedroom - the books, sports trophies, a framed photograph of his smiling mother with her toddler son taken down by the river. He missed it all while he was away and was painful aware each time he was home that it might be the last time he saw it._ Damn the bloody Luftwaffe._

They sat in silence for a few minutes then Andrew shifted, suddenly looking rather embarrassed.

"Sorry about all that, Dad."

"Nothing to be sorry about, son," assured his father. "Now, I don't know about you, but I could do with some tea."

"Tea sounds brilliant," smiled Andrew. "Shall I put the kettle on?"

"Why not let me do the honors while you get yourself cleaned up?"

Andrew nodded and began to untangle himself from the bedclothes. Before Foyle made it to the door, his son called out, "Dad? Thank you."

His father smiled, nodded and said, "I won't be long." Andrew heard him cross the hall to his own room, presumably to collect his slippers and dressing gown.

Foyle entered his room and leaned back against his door with his eyes closed. The surge of rage that tore through him when Andrew described Drake's indifference toward maintaining his Spitfire had returned. During his discussion with Andrew, it took every fiber of his being to keep his anger in check so he wouldn't alarm Andrew any further. But now…

_God, forgive me. But drowning was too good for the bastard._

Foyle looked down. His hands were balled into fists at his side and his breathing was staggered. After a few seconds, he took a deep breath and pried his fingers apart before he crossed to the bed to put on his wool dressing gown.

While he hunted around for his slippers, Foyle heard Andrew cross the hall to the lavatory. A short time later, he made his way to the kitchen to prepare their late-night brew.

As he collected the tea things on an enamel tray, Foyle continued to stew.

_At least Drake was dead and he couldn't put Andrew or any member of his squadron at risk. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for now. Just wait until I tell Hugh about Drake's cock up. He'll be just as angry – as if the mechanic needed more people cheering his demise…_

A much calmer Andrew, dressed in a fresh pair of pajamas and his dressing gown, met his father at the door of his bedroom and relieved him of the tea tray. He accepted a cup from Foyle with a nod of quiet thanks. The men sipped their tea in silence until Andrew checked the time on the clock by his bed.

"Christ, Dad, it's 2 a.m.," Andrew said in surprise. "We're supposed to be up in a few hours to go fishing!"

"Couldn't matter less, Andrew," said Foyle with a wave of his hand. "We can go later or, another day if you'd rather."

Andrew shook his head. "No, Dad, I want to go."

There was a note of urgency in his voice that surprised Foyle but he made no comment, merely nodded and took another sip of tea. "Well, we can go around 9, but there's always the weekend."

Andrew nodded. "Nine o'clock it is."

Once they had both finished their tea, Foyle stood, took his son's cup asking as he did so, "think you'll be able to sleep now?"

"Yes, I think so," said Andrew.

"Good, I'll take these down then," said Foyle as he placed both cups on the tray and headed for the door.

"Dad?"

Foyle stopped and turned back toward the bed. "Yes, Andrew?"

Andrew opened his mouth only to close it again. He frowned slightly before asking, "Umm, you'll come and wake me in a few hours then?"

"Absolutely will," said his father. "If we waited for you to get out of bed, all the fish would be gone."

Foyle returned the tea things to the kitchen then went into his bedroom to grab his eiderdown for yet another night of sleeping in a chair next to his son. He heard the question that Andrew had not asked earlier, and even without it, he had no intention of sleeping anywhere else for the next few hours.

He walked quietly across Andrew's room to place the eiderdown on the armchair before sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. His son stirred and asked, "Dad?"

"Yes, Andrew, I'm here. Go back to sleep."

Andrew nodded and shifted slightly. "Love you, Dad," he said in a soft voice as he closed his eyes.

Foyle closed his eyes, rose from the bed and whispered, "And I love you, son."

As he drew the bedclothes up around his boy, Foyle found couldn't recall the last time he had heard Andrew speak those words to him. _Was it after another bad dream?_

Neither he nor his son was outwardly affectionate with each other now like they were when he was a small. Rosalind was the one who rained kisses and hugs upon her precious boy and told him "I love you" every night as she tucked him into his bed. There were many nights when Foyle, hidden on the landing outside the bedroom door, had heard Andrew giggle, "And I love _you_, Mummy."

But after her death, while their affection for each other never waned, those words were very rarely spoken aloud.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Well this it. A massive thank you to LauraRaposa for editing this entire story for me.

Thanks to everyone who took the time to review.

I hope you've enjoyed my first foray into Foyle's War fanfiction – TT-5

Chapter 20

The next day dawned bright and clear and by 10 a.m. both Foyles were in their hip waders and ankle-deep in the river. It was a perfect day for fishing and Foyle let himself relax slightly as he concentrated on carefully landing his fly on the water's surface.

Oddly, Foyle felt a bit fidgety after 20 minutes of silence. He had come to embrace the silence of the river, free from the sounds of human life and only broken by the water's babble as well as the chirps and whistles of nature. But that was when he went alone. When Andrew accompanied him, Foyle had grown accustomed to the quiet conversation that would flow between them.

After last night's interrupted slumber, Foyle was pleasantly surprised to find Andrew looking more like his old self. His body, wound tight ever since he returned home, appeared relaxed even though his father knew fly-fishing wasn't Andrew's sport of choice. _I daresay it looks like he's rather enjoying himself._

Andrew felt his father's eyes on him and looked up with a smile but stayed quiet. He had never noticed how wonderfully relaxing the river was until now, and he didn't want to break the stillness that had calmed the troubled waters of his mind. _Wonder if that's why Dad likes to fish so much?_ He watched his father cast expertly, and decided the question could wait.

With two "starter" trout in their baskets, Andrew broke their silence. "Did you fish before the war, Dad? The last war, I mean."

Foyle contemplated the question as he cast his line, "Once in a great while, but it wasn't a regular thing."

"Why did you start?"

"Your mother, mostly."

Andrew waited patiently for his father to explain.

"She, um, thought I needed to get out more," said Foyle. "She didn't like the idea of me spending all my time behind a desk. And she liked the idea of a fresh trout now and then as we were still under rationing."

He smiled faintly and expertly recast his line as he decided whether he should tell Andrew the whole truth.

_I want Andrew to feel comfortable speaking with me about his service, but I'd rather not talk about what happened in France– to anyone._

He chewed on his lip for a minute and continued, "And once she heard that Dr. White had suggested it, I really had no choice whatsoever."

Andrew frowned. "Dr. White? Why would he care if you went fishing or not?"

Foyle focused on his line as he answered. "Well, I had, umm, taken some shrapnel in my shoulder, and it had, umm, weakened the muscle. White thought fishing would help build it back up again."

Andrew was shocked. He had no idea that his father had been injured during the last war. He watched as Foyle smoothly manipulated his line. There was no sign there was anything wrong with either shoulder. "Which shoulder, Dad?"

"Umm, my right."

"Ah, casting arm."

"Yup."

They lapsed back into silence as Andrew digested this new information about his father.

_Hmm._ _Right shoulder is his casting arm and the arm you use for steering a car…_

"Is that why you don't drive, Dad?" asked Andrew. "Can't steer the car and shift at the same time?"

Foyle was surprised by Andrew's question although he thought rather ruefully that he shouldn't be given that his boy was smart enough to connect the dots.

"Err, yeah."

"But why? I've never noticed your arm give you any trouble."

"It doesn't for the most part," said Foyle. "But I couldn't risk it."

Andrew frowned. "I don't follow, Dad."

Foyle sighed. "Well, you see, they didn't get all the bits out. Thought they had, but one time when I was back home…" He paused as he remembered the terror of suddenly losing feeling in his arm.

He shook his head and forced himself to continue. "One day I lost all feeling in my arm. Went to see Dr. White, and he figured that there was still a piece or two of shrapnel in there that had shifted and pinched a nerve. It only happened a few times but I didn't want to risk driving after that. Damn near crashed the car the first time it happened."

Andrew nodded distractedly. It had never occurred to him that his father might have a good reason for not driving. Dad told him and others - including his latest driver, the ever-so-perky Sam Stewart - that if he was behind the wheel he couldn't hash out the particulars of a case. So driving himself was a colossal waste of time as well as the public's money. It seemed like a reasonable explanation, so Andrew never questioned it.

_But he never told anyone at the station? I know there were a few digs at his expense, but if they knew it was because of a war wound, no one would have dreamed of being so uncharitable. He's avoided talking about the war for nearly 22 years yet for me he's relived so much of it in the last few days. _

Andrew suddenly had a desire to hug his father, but knew he would probably object to his recent cast being disturbed. So instead he smiled and gave him a fond look before he returned his attention to the river.

When Foyle returned from the shops later that day, he found Andrew sprawled across the settee fast asleep with a book face down on his chest. Foyle removed his hat and coat in the hallway and moved quietly to the kitchen to put the kettle on and put away the shopping.

With his teacup safely in hand, he headed back to the lounge. He put the tea down on the table by his chair and turned to study his son.

Apart from the darkish shadows under his eyes, asleep Andrew looked very much like his childhood self with his face relaxed and hair tousled. Although he now took up the whole settee, he reminded his father of the 5-year-old boy who announced one day that he was too old for naps.

"I'm a big boy now," Andrew had said as he made his case to his amused parents. Foyle grinned as he remembered that later that same afternoon he and Rosalind found their "big boy" curled up on the settee fast asleep with his storybooks scattered around him. His father, as he did many times after that day, had carried him upstairs to his bed to finish his nap.

Andrew was far too big to carried now, so Foyle settled for covering him with a blanket and leaving him to sleep. But before he returned to his chair, he dropped a kiss on his son's forehead and wished him sweet dreams – just like he did when he was 5 years old.

Foyle, seated now with his own book in his lap, knew that in three days his son would walk out the door again to re-join the war. Thankfully, Andrew would not be in the thick of things for some time, but it didn't mean his father would worry - or miss him - any less.

Andrew's time at home seemed to have helped. The despair that had frightened Foyle the first night his son was AWOL appeared to have lifted. And although he was still worn down by his wartime responsibilities, Andrew no longer seemed to be at the end of his endurance.

Before he picked up his book, Foyle turned to the framed photo of Rosalind on the table. He had thought of his beloved late wife more over the last few days than he had in many months. Foyle mused that perhaps it was because their son's troubles coincided with the anniversary of her death. Or maybe it was that every time Andrew needed his help he tried to think of what Rosalind would do or say.

_I still miss you every day, my darling girl. You would be so proud of our Andrew. He is strong, brave and full of compassion. Thankfully, the war has not stolen that from him. He reminds me so much of you, Rose. I have tried to do my best in your absence. He's become a good man, and I pray that he will come back to me when this bloody business is over. Please continue to watch over him, my love, as I know you do. I don't know how I could ever survive if I lost him too._

Interrupted by the sound of muttered words from the settee, Foyle looked up and studied his son. Satisfied that Andrew was still sleeping peacefully, Christopher Foyle fingered his book, took a sip of now-tepid tea and took comfort that his son was safe at home and there was fresh trout to fry up for their dinner.

The End


End file.
